


A Red Ribbon

by narcisseae (jesusonaunicycle)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Adopted Children, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Child of Surprise (The Witcher), Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion Friendship, Curse Breaking, Destiny, Fae & Fairies, Families of Choice, Fantastic Racism, Friendship, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, Multi, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Nonbinary Character, Not Beta Read, OC heavy, Original Character Death(s), POV Alternating, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Slow Burn, The Witcher Lore, Timeline What Timeline, Transphobia, Winter At Kaer Morhen, no beta we die like men, they/them pronouns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 09:34:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 44,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27848610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesusonaunicycle/pseuds/narcisseae
Summary: It takes a year for Jaskier to properly lick his wounds after the mountain. When Geralt doesn’t come for him, he makes a promise to himself: he will no longer write about someone else’s life, he’ll write about his own. He hears news of a mysterious town in southern Rivia that isn’t on any Continental maps, so he embarks on a journey to investigate. However, once he gets there, he’s embroiled in something he’d never thought possible — his own Destiny, his cursed Child Surprise.When Geralt and Jaskier cross paths again, Jaskier makes the decision to follow Geralt one last time: to the halls of Kaer Morhen, where he and his Child can be safe. The threat of a second war hangs over the Continent like a ghost, and with a dark rider hot on their trail, Jaskier can think of no safer place than beside his old muse, no matter the cost to his own heart.
Relationships: Eskel (The Witcher)/Original Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 50
Kudos: 93





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!! :) For those who don't know me, my name is Kat, and I'm a nonbinary fic writer! _The Witcher_ universe has always been cool to me, but this is the first time I'm playing in its sandbox! Seeing as this is my first big project since 2017, all I ask is that you be gentle. :)
> 
> I'm obsessed with giving the more "blank slate" characters some backstory. Geralt's is mostly fleshed out and I'm keeping his mostly similar, as with the rest of the witchers, Yennefer, Ciri and Triss. Jaskier's (very nebulous) backstory is just... fair game lmao, and also the focal point of this fic. If you have any problems with original characters having a semi-important (or even pivotal) role in fic, then I'm sorry, but this isn't the fic for you. :(
> 
> Usually I do warnings in the beginning notes and a glossary in the end notes, but since this is a chaptered work I'll just do warnings up here and save the glossary for any questions. I'll be doing these warnings every chapter, so **please read the beginning notes before reading!** If you have any questions or comments or just want to give some kudos, I'd really appreciate any interaction! We alone in quarantine rn :(
> 
>  **Warnings:** _implied/referenced child abuse (non-graphic), original character death, graphic decapitation, referenced homophobia, referenced vomiting (non-graphic)_
> 
> Gore Warning: If you want to avoid the gore, skip from the break starting with "He woke somewhere" to "He woke retching."

Lower Posada, Dol Blathanna

March 20th, 1247

The forest of the elves is stunning, and nothing like what Jaskier had ever seen before. In Lettenhove, they hadn’t had forests, only copses of scraggly trees. Redania was known for its expansive fields of golden wheat, especially near Gelibol, where Lettenhove Estate rests. While at Oxenfurt he’d missed the rolling green hills. They’d sang to him after Mother died, a hundred voices in harmony. He’d sat out in the sweet-smelling air for hours with the elvish horses his father bred. 

When he’d been told that he couldn’t come home, it hadn’t been a surprise. His sister Maja was old enough now to get engaged to some haughty noble their father chose, and that poor sod would inherit the earldom. He wished his father luck finding a smart lad that would stick around after learning that Jaskier’s sisters were all hellbeasts, intent on destroying anything in their path. His heart swelled to think about them.

He was obscenely proud of them, his three little sisters. He and Marzanna, his stepmother, had done a bang-up job raising them into the most insufferable, stubborn creatures known to mankind.

Maja and Nadja, his second youngest sister, would _hate_ Lower Posada. The little hamlet was perpetually dirty, the dust of the road and the pollen from the forest coating everything in sight. Nadja’s weak lungs would never be able to handle it. Maja, on the other hand, was just spoiled, and wouldn’t touch anything on principle. Izabel was too young to truly hate anything, but his heart swelled to think of her cherub-like toddler face scrunch up in distaste.

 _If only they could see me now,_ Jaskier thought, grinning at the campfire on front of him. Filavandrel’s lute was carefully placed in its case, next to Jaskier’s traveling bags — one humongous pack that fit on his back and a smaller shoulder bag filled with books and paper. When Geralt had seen that Jaskier only had two bags, a lute, and no horse, he could have sworn both of the witcher’s eyes had twitched. He hadn’t said anything, though — he never did, really — just threw him a bedroll, grunting, “Use the spare.”

Marzanna would have had a fit. The bedroll was not only lumpy, it was _disgusting,_ covered in a brown-red substance that could either be blood or caked-on dirt. Jaskier decided not to ask. Honestly, he’d been too distracted by the sweaty, musky smell of muscly witcher attached to the horrendous thing, his dick twitching in his pants.

What? He never said he _didn’t_ get off on insane, hot, unhygienic people being mean to him.

Instead, he’d tried regaling the witcher of some of his own travels. He talked about going from Lettenhove to Oxenfurt (leaving out some key details, of course, like his birth class and title), and what beauty he’d seen in the countryside of Redania. He talked about Oxenfurt itself, and how it was always filled with art and music, the way the red-gabled roofs reflected the sun. He spoke about how he wound up in Dol Blathanna, the kingdom of elves, because of an unfortunate bet made with Valdo fucking Marx.

“He told me that if I could get the elves to love my songs, he’d pay me one hundred crowns,” Jaskier told Geralt, who was staring moodily into the fire. Jaskier stretched out his legs, content with the witcher’s silence, as it gave him _quite_ the stage to pontificate. He patted Filavandrel’s lute fondly. “This lute isn’t the only priceless thing I’ve been given today, my friend! I am quite certain I will never be given such a good opportunity to shove my boot up Valdo’s arse ever again.”

Geralt grunted, poking the fire with a stick. His lips were so pursed they were white and bloodless. Jaskier hummed at him, questioning, and the witcher said, “Lot of danger to go through for a hundred crowns.”

Jaskier guffawed, “Geralt! It’s not about the _crowns!”_ At the witcher’s bewildered look, Jaskier sat up, crossing his legs beneath him. “Right, witcher, I’m going to teach you something about having a nemesis. You must take every opportunity to best them, to grind their _sweaty little blond mustache_ into the _dirt,”_ he hissed.

For a second, Jaskier thought he saw amusement flicker in Geralt’s golden eyes. “Nemesis?” he asked, gravelly voice going teasing. Jaskier grinned at him a little viciously.

“Oh yes. Valdo fucking Marx has been a pain in my arse since I moved to Oxenfurt. That sweaty little prick has been poking at my innate talent and dashing personality since we were both sixteen.”

Geralt snorted. “It sounds like his sweaty little prick wasn’t good at poking, and that’s why you’re pissed,” he said drolly. He then proceeded to poke at the coals some more, tearing his gaze away.

Jaskier gaped at him for the spanse of two heartbeats, three, and then laughed. He laughed loud and long, and wiped at his eyes to see Geralt staring at him, brows drawn over his eyes and his mouth curled in a wry smile. It was obvious that Geralt wasn’t in the habit of making jokes — and in truth, it wasn’t a very good one, but Jaskier was all-too willing to provide some positive reinforcement. He grinned at the witcher, delighted to see the furrow between his brows easing.

“No, Geralt, it was _not_ very good, but there’s another lesson in having a nemesis: You must fuck them, just hopefully only once. I couldn’t stomach another night with Valdo.” 

He was flip as he said it, but he watched Geralt closely. In Redania, men sleeping with men wasn’t exactly _accepted,_ but it wasn’t a cause for disinheritance or, worse, imprisonment and death. In Kovir and Poviss, however, he’d personally known a few boys to burn at the stake. One could never be too careful, especially with strangers, especially while _traveling_ with strangers _,_ but if Geralt was making friendly jokes about Jaskier fucking another man, then he had no trouble joking right back.

That and it was much harder to kill him than what most people believed, of course.

Geralt snorted again, this time clearly in laughter. His smile became a bit more genuine, shy and small. Jaskier’s heart fluttered traitorously at the sight. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmured, and Jaskier laughed brightly.

“Do,” he said, and if he batted his eyelashes at the witcher, who was to blame him? He’d happily have another nemesis if it meant climbing Geralt like a tree.

The rest of the night was spent staring at a crackling fire and eating Geralt’s (disgusting) campfire rabbit. Jaskier ate it, if not because it was _good,_ then because it was meat, and he hadn’t had proper food in _ages._ Becoming a famous bard was tiring and often thankless work. The bread he’d managed to take from his last uncivilized audience was all he’d eaten in two days. Any sort of meat was heavenly after weeks of nothing but stewed vegetables and hard biscuits. In his low moments, Jaskier longed for the kitchens at Lettenhove, ran by a cheerful, plump woman by the name of Masha. She’d known Jaskier since he was a child, and often snuck him his favorites; rich cakes absolutely drenched in honey, piping hot sweetmeats, warm mugs of thick cream — delicious morsels that had no place on cold Continental roads.

 _“Your mother loved these,”_ Masha would always tell him, hazel eyes misty with remembrance. _“You remind me so much of her, Julek. Eat your honeycakes, now.”_

Masha, his sisters, Marzanna, the memory of his mother. Those were the things he kept close to his heart, and what he thought dearly of as his head hit the bedroll that night.

Long after the fire burned down to embers, something woke Jaskier. A gentle melody, plucked on a harp — _a zither,_ Jaskier’s tired but trained brain told him. He sat up groggily, rubbing hard at his eyes. The music didn’t frighten him, though he was in the middle of nowhere, in the dark, with a witcher who for all intents and purposes was a stranger. The music was strangely familiar — an old echo, a memory, his mother’s nimble fingers dancing over her lap harp, her enchanting voice singing in the Elder Language.

Jaskier looked around and saw nothing. The forest seemed asleep; even Geralt was still sleeping, curled on his side and snoring softly. Jaskier allowed himself a moment to inspect the witcher, who looked almost… adorable in his sleep. His brow relaxed, tension gone from his face — he looked like a young man with sharp features, weathering the world on his shoulders. One of his meaty fists was curled up by his face, loose in slumber.

Jaskier spared him a small smile before rising. The music was oddly compelling; he knew he remembered it from somewhere. It wasn’t alarming. He kept his feet light as he picked his way across the campsite, following the melody — he didn’t want to wake Geralt if he didn’t have to. The sounds led him through the dense forest, the only guidance the cool, silvery light of the moon through the branches. Soon, Jaskier heard the burbling of water gently sloshing over stones, accompanying the harp beautifully. He crept closer, peeking through the treeline, and nearly gasped at what he saw.

A creek sliced through the forest, a silver thread in the lush dark. On the banks, he saw hundreds of white daisies, their cheery petals soaking up the moonlight. A large stone, covered in moss, hung over the creek below. On its face sat a lap harp, where the music was coming from — and yet no one was playing.

Despite the unnatural music, Jaskier still did not find himself afraid. He stepped forward, searching for the harpist, but found no one. When he looked away from the zither, the music turned melancholy; the very air tinged with sadness. When he turned back to it, the music became hopeful again, begging Jaskier to come closer.

“Strange,” he murmured to the harp, almost fond. He stepped until he was at the lip of the stone, and crouched. The strings were obviously being plucked — he could see the vibrations, the slight give of them beneath invisible fingers.

“Magic,” he said to himself, wondrously. “What sort of spell could do this?”

 _“No spell,”_ said hundreds of voices in harmony, and Jaskier gasped, spinning around. There was no one; the music didn’t stop, either. For the first time, Jaskier felt fear, and he was just about to run when the voices laughed sweetly, all in tandem.

 _“Don’t leave us yet, little flower,”_ the voices said, swirling in the air and in his mind, _“We have not even spoken yet.”_

 _Little flower,_ Jaskier thought, dazed. The moniker struck something in him, a hammer on a string. He got flashes of his mother’s old flower garden, full of foxgloves and harebells, the neat row of buttercups and dandelions that lined its stone hedge. 

“How do you know that name?” he demanded, dizzy. He plopped onto the mossy rock, close to the harp. The instrument sang merrily.

In the distance, Jaskier heard a splash. He turned, nervous, to see a sleek, furry body slip gracefully onto the stone. Its body was long, with a stout, strong tail, and large paws whose claws gleamed silver in the moonlight. Its chest was paler than its back, and it sat on its haunches, head cocked at Jaskier curiously.

 _“It’s the name we gave you,”_ the voices told him, and it took Jaskier an embarrassingly long time to realize that the voices were coming _from the animal._

“What the fuck,” he told it, and the voices laughed, the animal’s mouth opening in a grin. Its teeth were much larger than he’d anticipated and sharp-looking.

The fear he felt returned thricefold. “Listen, I don’t remember any otters giving me that name, though I thank you,” he laughed, the sound false-bright in the darkness.

He didn’t really think otters could frown, but this one was certainly attempting to. It crawled forward, close enough that Jaskier’s body went tense at the proximity, and then stopped. The animal’s eyes flashed in the light, and Jaskier gasped as he was hit with yet another vague memory.

He had been eight years old. He was summoned to his mother’s chambers — an unfamiliar handmaiden had fetched him from Enid’s, his mother’s horse, paddock. She’d rushed him into the estate and up the stairs. He’d flung open the doors to his mother’s chamber and immediately climbed into bed with her. She had been bedridden since that past autumn, and winter had had Lady Eirlys of Lettenhove in her clutches like the fields of wheat near the estate. She had known that she wouldn’t last the winter; her coughing had only gotten worse, the rattle in her lungs like a funeral procession.

Someone else had been in that room. Not the handmaiden — she’d been posted outside, instructed by Lady Eirlys herself not to let anyone in. They had held onto him as he sobbed, after his mother drew her last breath. They’d been with him for hours, until the tears and the screaming had subsided, and the rest of the mourners had to enter. Jaskier roughly remembered dark skin, the glint of gold jewelry, too-sharp teeth, and eyes that glowed the vibrant, intense color of foxgloves.

In later years, he’d thought it was a figment, a fancy constructed by a grieving little boy. But those same purple eyes stared at him now, blinking slowly, trustingly. Jaskier’s breath shuddered out of him, both relieved and terrified.

“Bláthnat,” Jaskier murmured, the name sitting oddly in his mouth. His mother had said it affectionately, almost familial. He could barely get the syllables out clearly.

The otter — Bláthnat — dipped their head. In his mind, their voices said, _“It is good to see you, Dandelion. We have missed you.”_

Jaskier laughed quietly. _Dandelion._ The name his mother gave him, because of how often he’d played in the weeds by her garden. His favorites had always been the buttercups, but his mother had refused to call him that, instead insisting he be known around Lettenhove as Dandelion.

He’d asked her why, once, when he was seven. She’d smiled at him, beautiful blue eyes glimmering, white shift-dress scandalously high around her ankles, chestnut hair burnished red in the sun. He’d always thought he got his unrepentant attitude from his mother.

 _“I call you Dandelion because you heal as much as you hurt, en’ca minne,”_ she’d told him, brushing a bony hand through his hair. He’d giggled at his mother back then, but now he held those words tightly to his chest, made sure they were true.

“Why’ve you found me?” he asked Bláthnat, struggling to withhold tears. “It’s been ten years.” The otter shifted forward, placed surprisingly heavy paws on his leg. He thought about telling them off — these trousers were Toussaintois _silk,_ thank you — but held his tongue. Bláthnat had helped him the day his mother died. He owed them a bit of his time, and his patience, if nothing else.

Bláthnat blinked up at him through huge, impossible purple eyes. _“Oh, little flower, it has been ten years for_ **_you.”_ ** At his confused expression, Bláthnat sighed, the sound musical and harmonious. _“Ten years for you is a blink, for us, or a lifetime. Time moves differently in the Faerie, Dandelion.”_

“The Faerie.” The word buzzed along his spine, lit up his fingertips. He’d known; of course he’d known, his father had sneered it at him often enough as a child. A fae boy, an unnatural thing, born _wrong._ It was hardly a secret in Lettenhove that his mother had been fae, free-spirited and wild. No one had known what she’d seen in Alfred Pankratz, Earl of Gelibol and Mirthe, a thin sullen man with a short temper.

She’d been fierce about her flowers, and fiercest about her son. When Alfred tried to hit Jaskier instead of a poor serving girl or a stablehand, his mother had attacked him, scoring deep, bloody lines into his face. That night, Jaskier remembered, two of his father’s prized racehorses perished in a sudden collapse. Wisteria and ivy had grown into the foundations of the stable and caused it to crumble.

Alfred had never raised another hand to Jaskier while Eirlys was alive.

In the present, Bláthnat touched a wet, webbed paw to Jaskier’s cheek. He jumped at the contact; suddenly he smelled peat, crushed mint, and tobacco smoke curling in the air. He breathed deeply. It was comforting, this cool touch, the warm smells. Bláthnat let out a cheerful chirrup.

He smiled at the creature, a well of fondness rising in him. “Thank you,” Jaskier murmured, and Bláthnat blinked at him slowly.

 _“We know it’s hard for you to see us. We have stayed away, while you were learning,”_ they told him, voices tinged with sadness. _“We spoke to the Red Lady of Lettenhove, once, in an attempt to see you. We fear we may have given her cause to worry.”_

 _The Red Lady?_ Jaskier thought, confused, before the thought landed. He laughed brightly, uncaring of the sleeping world around them. “You spoke to Marzanna?” he asked, delighted at the thought.

Marzanna was indeed the Red Lady of Lettenhove, what with her fiery ginger hair and penchant for autumnal dresses. She was a no-nonsense woman, iron-fisted and firm, and she would not have found Bláthnat’s odd voices and turns of phrase amusing.

The fae whined at him reproachfully. _“We did. Watch your names, little flower,”_ they warned him, sounding serious. _“Your Red Lady was smart not to give us hers when we met her. Us fae like keeping them.”_

Jaskier sucked in a breath. He’d forgotten, he’d forgotten the _best-known rule_ about meeting a fae. He flushed red, both embarrassed and concerned for Marzanna, when Bláthnat grinned at him, many-toothed.

 _“Fear not. Noble names are more complicated, little flower — the Red Lady will not be beholden to us. Just so, we cannot control you, either,”_ they explained, purple eyes shining. _“We could teach you, if you’d like.”_

Jaskier nodded vigorously. He’d been too young to know there was something different about him when his mother was alive. She’d never told him anything; it was as he got older and pieced the court rumors and his father’s sneers together that he’d suspected he wasn’t fully human. The staff at Lettenhove and Marzanna had gone to great lengths to keep him in the dark. It was only after his second year at Oxenfurt that he’d fully figured it out, after he’d told Marzanna he wasn’t coming home. She’d written him a letter explaining his mother’s heritage, and warning him to be _careful._

His odd compulsions to name his sisters were part of his nature, and they’d all be eternally bound — she’d explicitly told him not to name any lovers, friends, or children. Other than that, Marzanna hadn’t known much.

He’d lived in fear since then. He’d not had any opportunities to name any children, though he certainly wouldn’t want to be bound to one anyway — he was only eighteen, and though his father had pressured him to get married much younger, Jaskier believed he was still too young to have a child. No lovers or friends had given him their full names anyway — they were all aspiring bards at Oxenfurt, they’d all had stage names.

Bláthnat explained that it would be different for him, so he had little to fear. He was half-human. He didn’t have much magic — his music was the closest thing he had to chaos, and that was borne out of love, not power. The only things he’d inherited from his mother were longevity (laughable, considering she’d died young even by human standards, though Bláthnat assured him that was rare), preferences of luxury (he’d been tempted to ask if being fae was the reason he tumbled men, too, but Bláthnat’s scathing look had stopped him before he tried), and compulsion to uphold the Laws of Spring and Autumn.

“What are the laws?” Jaskier asked, intrigued.

Bláthnat shifted on their paws, either nervous or excited. _“The Laws of Spring and Autumn are our code,”_ they said, their voice taking on a lecturing tone. _“They are the rules the fae abide by. There are many, but there are only three unbreakable laws.”_

Jaskier’s lips twitched in a smile. He loved how even in their own codes, fae could twist and turn and weasel out of them. “What are the main three, then?”

 _“Loyalty,”_ Bláthnat said promptly, startling Jaskier in their honesty. The fae gazed at him, calm and deep. _“When we claim things as ours, we must take them. This applies to our place within the Spheres, as well. When you accept that you are fae, you bind yourself to us, and we are bound to you.”_

An old piece of philosophy niggled at the back of his brain. “Interconnectedness?” he asked.

_“Just so. You are not just a fae, but Faerie, too. If you ever go to the Faerie, little flower, you will have your place.”_

The implications of that swirled maddeningly in his brain. He decided to think about it another time.

“What about the second and third laws?” Jaskier said, to Bláthnat’s knowing smile.

 _“The second is less complicated,”_ the fae said, settling back against the rock. Twilight stars danced dizzily in the creek below them. _“The Second Law is Autumn’s Law. Fae cannot tell lies, and so we must always give our Truths. We must be genuine in all things, or the Spheres will see our falseness, and strike us down.”_

“That sounds very religious, Bláthnat,” Jaskier intoned teasingly. The fae didn’t roll their eyes, but he could tell they wanted to.

 _“Just so, Dandelion. It only sounds that way, however. It simply is not in our nature to be false,”_ they said, little otter body shrugging. _“It is a compulsion we cannot change.”_

Jaskier nodded, accepting this. He’d never been much of a liar anyway — he’d just… bent the truth. “And the third?”

If it were possible, Bláthnat actually got more intense. Their purple eyes gleamed excitedly. _“This is our favorite law. It is Spring’s Law,”_ they told him. _“What do you know of spring, child?”_

Jaskier’s brow furrowed as he frowned. “Is this a trick question?”

The fae huffed at him. _“No, Dandelion. Tell me!”_

Their voices echoed strangely in his mind, odd enough to make him wince. “Alright, alright! What do I know of _spring,”_ he muttered, before sinking into thought. He remembered the wheat fields in Gelibol, the frozen mud thawing and sinking into his fine leather shoes. He thinks of the way the whole world seems to sweat. He thinks of flowers breaking through the earth, of wheat shoots, of horses screaming as they birth their foals, slick and black and red.

“Spring is… gross,” he said, and then winced at how stupid he sounded.

But the fae grinned at him, teeth gleaming white. _“Very good,”_ Bláthnat praised him. _“You are right. Spring is new life and old death, mulched into the loam of the earth. Spring_ **_eats,_ ** _child. The world is starving, and it gluts itself on the offerings made out of dead things.”_

Jaskier’s skin crawled. “That’s disgusting,” he murmured, disturbed, but Bláthnat only chirruped happily.

 _“Just so. Beauty comes from disgust,”_ they told him, thick tail thumping against the rock. The lap harp, Jaskier noticed, finally stopped playing. _“Spring is where all new beginnings start and the old finally gives up and dies, and the fae live by the cycles of the world. In the spring, we are given our Children.”_

Jaskier nearly choked on his own spit. “Children?!” he coughed, and the fae shushed him with a single sibilant sound.

 _“Sss, listen! The Law of Spring is how we ensure our legacy,”_ Bláthnat said calmly. _“This is not our biological children, but the children of our souls, who we share a Destiny with.”_ Their purple eyes reflected so many stars; Jaskier thought he could make new constellations in them, if he tried. _“Every fae has a Child of Spring, little flower. Ours is you.”_

“Me?” The thought was unsettling. It was true, he’d felt… drawn to Bláthnat, but he figured it was because of his bloodline. The fae had known his mother, after all, and held him after she’d died. To think that they were destined…

 _“We do not think of this as a burden,”_ Bláthnat’s voices cut through Jaskier’s thoughts, halting them in their tracks. Their expression was fierce when Jaskier looked up at them. _“It is a gift. You are our greatest treasure, Dandelion. And one day, you will meet yours.”_

“A gift?” Jaskier guffawed, panic slipping around in his stomach. “What gift could I possibly be to you? We’ve just met!”

Bláthnat made a sort of buzzing noise, pressing toward him. Jaskier allowed it, feeling their warm, wriggly body settle on his lap. They were surprisingly solid. That, for some reason, helped him calm down.

The fae buzzed again, nuzzling a cold nose into his cheek. Jaskier laughed softly. _“You are a gift because Eirlys showed you to us,”_ they said quietly, voices soft and loving in his ears. _“We knew we had chosen well the moment we put our arms around you. Your Destiny is bright, little dandelion.”_

For some reason, the words made tears well up in his eyes. He sniffled, trying to push them down, but the fae just pressed more intently into his chest.

 _“A red ribbon ties us to you,”_ Bláthnat whispered, tail thumping onto his thigh. Jaskier huffed a laugh and grabbed their tail, his other arm coming up to cradle them. Bláthnat whined happily.

Jaskier allowed himself to sit with them a while in silence. The lap harp remained dormant, but somehow Jaskier could still hear the melody, whirling in his mind the way the stars spinned in the creek. Bláthnat just settled deeper into Jaskier’s embrace like a stone. He wondered at the compulsion that had drawn him to Bláthnat, the calmness that he’d felt. The rightness. It was like when he’d seen Geralt at the tavern in Lower Posada; he had just _had_ to talk to him, despite his brooding. Jaskier didn’t make a habit of trusting people he’d just met — he’d made sure to be careful at Lettenhove, at Oxenfurt, to be cautious — but it seemed he’d met two people who he’d felt he’d _needed._ He mused on this, stroking his fingers down Bláthnat’s spine.

“It’s strange,” he told the fae quietly, trying not to disturb the calm that had settled over them both. Bláthnat made an interested noise, and Jaskier went on, “I felt drawn to you, like… like I was navigating the sea by the stars,” he said, dreamy, “and I felt that yesterday, too, with someone else. I don’t get _drawn_ to people like this. It’s usually the other way around.” He paused, fingers tangling in Bláthnat’s fur. “Perhaps this _is_ my Destiny.”

The thought filled him with a soft, fragile hope. It felt like butterfly wings in his stomach, watery dawn light in his chest. He felt like he belonged, like he’d found people who finally saw him. He’d found the missing piece of himself with Bláthnat, found the future in Geralt. It was exhilarating. He never wanted the feeling to end.

Bláthnat shifted in his lap, the otter blinking up at him. _“You have felt compelled to another person? Already?”_

Jaskier nodded, biting back a tiny smile. The fae almost sounded jealous. “Yes,” he murmured, “but you’re both tied for my favorite person, at the moment, so don’t get _too_ cross at me.”

The fae buzzed and squinted at him. _“Who is this person?”_ they asked. Jaskier tried not to bristle at their suspicious tone.

Still, he frowned, because this was a moment of clarity for him, of gentility, not of suspicion. “His name is Geralt,” he said, keeping his voice light. “He’s quite the specimen of manhood, Bláthnat — I think even a distinguished fae such as yourself would be interested in him.”

The fae made a derisive noise. _“Romance does not concern us,”_ they said, swishing the thought away with their paws. _“You say you feel drawn to him. Is it the same as how you are drawn to us?”_

The question was urgent. Jaskier made a soft, soothing noise, and attempted to calm the fae by stroking down their spine again.

“Not really, but similar,” he confessed, and the fae subsided some with a contemplative hum. Jaskier tried to hide a smile — his mother’s friend was _protective_ of him. “With you, I feel calm, _right._ With him, I feel… alive,” he said. He couldn’t help it if the words sounded vulnerable, even to his own ears. “Geralt reeks of danger, but also of heroism, and kindness, and heartbreak. He’s been through so much, I just feel it.”

Bláthnat hummed. _“Your mother had this gift of empathy. Sylphs often do. You will not feel it as much, of course, because of your humanity, but you will have vestiges of it. We believe it is tied to your gift of music.”_

Jaskier smiled helplessly. “You are quite the charmer, did you know?” he said. Bláthnat just buzzed at him grumpily.

_“Tell us about this man, then. He is human?”_

“No.” Jaskier hesitated, but the word fell out of his mouth anyways. He didn’t know if witchers hunted faeries — he hadn’t thought to ask him, since they’d only known each other for barely a day, and he certainly didn’t want to get run through. He didn’t _think_ Geralt would kill him. Geralt seemed to respect the elves; he’d bowed his head to Filavandrel, given him the respect of his station. He even honored the elf king’s wishes and agreed to meet him well on the fields of battle in some nebulous future. Jaskier supposed it was because of how humans saw witchers as blights, too. A common thread, perhaps — two sides of a coin.

Fae weren’t that much different than elves. Right?

Bláthnat brought him out of his thoughts with a pointed thwap of their tail. _“Dandelion,”_ they intoned, _“what is Geralt, if not human?”_

Right, Jaskier thought, and closed his eyes. Thou shalt not lie, and all that. “Geralt is a witcher.”

The fae hissed and leapt out of Jaskier’s hold. When Jaskier opened his eyes, startled, he saw Bláthnat’s purple eyes were wide, teeth bared. They had never looked more like an animal.

“Bláthnat,” Jaskier tried, reaching for them, but the fae growled, the sound frighteningly deep.

 _“Tricks! Tricks and magic, Dandelion! Witchers are not friends with the likes of us, they hunt_ _our kind. They bring our heads back to the men that pay them!”_

“Geralt isn’t like that,” Jaskier snapped back, though he didn’t know for sure, not really. But something about the witcher made him proprietary, some protectiveness welling in his chest. He’d felt it when he’d seen Geralt, dejected and alone in the tavern. “He’s _good,_ Bláthnat, he helped me! He’s saved my life!”

Bláthnat’s eyes blazed, flashing magenta, violet, foxglove. _“Does he know what you are?”_ they demanded.

Jaskier’s stomach rolled. He averted his eyes, refusing to answer, and Bláthnat hissed in their many voices, a cacophony of sound.

 **_“Foolish_ ** _boy. He would kill you if he knew,”_ they spat. They began to pace, claws clicking on the stone beneath them. _“You cannot trust witchers, child. If you are traveling with him, he has your scent; he can track you. We must get you out of here—”_

“No.”

Bláthnat suddenly stopped. The word echoed in the space between them. Jaskier felt his heart beating fast, faster, his eyes welling with tears.

 _“What?”_ the fae said, softly. It would have been dangerous, if Jaskier didn’t know deep in his bones that Bláthnat would never hurt him.

Jaskier’s voice was thick as he said, “No, Bláthnat. I’m traveling with him. It’s right for me, I _know_ it is. Please understand.”

The fae stared at him. _“You would travel with a monster hunter, knowing he will hurt you.”_ Their voices were hard, disbelieving — disappointed.

The fragile hope in his chest shattered. He knew that tone, that look — he’d seen it on so many people’s faces, his father’s, his stepmother’s, his professors’. Suddenly all he could think of was the mantra of voices of his past, the ones that chanted _odd boy, fae boy, born wrong._

 _Don’t you want something to do something practical with your life?_ Marzanna had asked him once, the only time he’d taken a semester break at Oxenfurt. He’d known she was concerned; being a bard was certainly not as secure as being an earl, after all, and there was more of a chance of him being discovered. But he was also sixteen and hurt, because Marzanna was the person who had always supported him, always encouraged his strangeness as a boy. For her doubt him, too, had shaken his very foundations, crumbled them into dust.

For some reason, to hear that tone from Bláthnat was just as heartbreaking.

Anger was a balm to his heart, already battered so badly. He would _not_ have another person tell him what to do, or how to feel. He was a grown man. He had the power of the Faerie in his bones, the blood of his mother in his veins — he could do as he so _wished._

“Yes,” Jaskier said through gritted teeth. Bláthnat’s eyes widened. “I am a grown man, and I will make my own decisions. I know Geralt won’t hurt me, unlike certain faeries who think they know what’s best for their children without knowing them!”

He scrambled to stand — his legs had fallen asleep at some point, though he didn’t feel it, and he fumbled several times. Bláthnat watched him, dangerously still. Once he got to his feet, Jaskier towered over the fae. Despite this, they looked unrepentant, chin raised defiantly. He wondered if all fae were stubborn bastards.

“I will do what’s best for _me,”_ he told Bláthnat, teary-eyed despite the indignation in his heart. “You don’t know what that is, Bláthnat. Only I do.”

 _“He will_ **_hurt_ ** _you,”_ the fae said, sounding helpless. If they had hands, he knew they would be wringing them. _“You are our responsibility, Dandelion.”_

Jaskier sighed, exasperated. “All the best things in life hurt, at some point,” he said. He wasn’t going to touch the fact that he hadn’t seen Bláthnat in ten years, and therefore had already shirked their responsibility to him. “I might as well choose my pain, rather than let it just… happen to me.”

Bláthnat watched him, dismayed and silent. Uncomfortable under their stare, he dusted off his trousers, and stepped off the stone. The lap harp gave a mournful twang. Jaskier gave the instrument a small, watery smile, before staring back into Bláthnat’s huge, sad eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, hoarse with emotion. “I can’t have another parent, Bláthnat. I’ve already had one too many.”

With that he turned back toward the forest trail from whence he came, but not before he saw the fae’s eyes fill with tears. Jaskier didn’t know if otters could cry, or if it was just a fae thing, but the sight was distressing nonetheless.

Before he broke the treeline, Bláthnat sang out a little tune — a wren’s call, he thought. He paused, cocking his head, and the fae said, _“Be careful, little flower. If you ever need us, we will find you.”_

For such a creepy sentiment, Jaskier found himself smiling. “Thank you,” he murmured, and then stepped through the trees, leaving Bláthnat behind.

His heart was heavy when he made it back to camp. The moon helped — it was a clear night, and the forest was not nearly as frightening now as it was during the day. He found the campfire dead, just a pile of coals, the bones of their dinner charred in the middle. Geralt was still sleeping; he’d curled up even tighter, his silver hair catching the starlight, messy around his head. Jaskier felt his heart thump painfully.

“I hope you’re worth all this, witcher,” he whispered to Geralt’s sleeping form. The man snorted softly, the beginnings of a snore. Jaskier smiled indulgently. “That’s what I thought, too.”

He crawled back into his stinking bedroll, and curled up as tightly as he could. Sleep came for him slowly. His eyes burned behind their lids, suppressed emotion and exhaustion, but eventually he felt the world shift, and his eyes roll back.

He woke somewhere that was definitely _not_ Dol Blathanna. The air was thicker, like they were closer to the sea. The forest was thinner, the trees younger, and the branches bare. It was winter, wherever he was, though he wasn’t concerned; somewhere in the back of his mind he knew this was a dream. Jaskier stood in a camp not unlike the one he fell asleep in, though it contained more bedrolls; he could spot four, including one large enough for two people. A fire smoldered, its smoke dissipating before it reached over the trees.

 _Magic,_ Jaskier thought, smiling ruefully. He’d always longed for magic and adventure. His subconscious gave him a beautiful outlet.

“What’re you smiling about?” asked a voice, and Jaskier turned on instinct. Someone he’d never seen before smiled back at him, small but tired. They had pale eyes and skin, made even lighter by the black, boiled leather armor they were wearing. A battle-axe was strapped to their back. Their face was oval-shaped, feminine, with thick brows and an upturned nose. Their hair was cropped short, like a boy’s, and was a brassy in-between color. A plain-looking and by all intents and purposes easily forgettable person, but somehow Jaskier felt drawn to them.

“Our mage’s idea of concealment,” Jaskier said, his voice deeper, older. His brain shifted sideways at the discovery, even as his mouth kept moving. “It seems like Yennefer gets craftier every day.”

The person’s smile eased, became more genuine. Something in Jaskier’s chest eased with it. “Don’t be jealous, Jask,” they said, stepping closer to bump his shoulder. They were short, a head shorter than him — their hair tickled his nose and smelled like sea wind.

“Jealous of Yennefer?” Jaskier-in-the-dream scoffed, fondly brushing snow out of the person’s hair. “I could _never, ever_ be jealous of a literal insane person. The woman has no concept of what’s appropriate, no limit to her hubris, incorrigible—”

“You’re describing yourself!” the person laughed, querulous and strained, like they weren’t really used to it. Jaskier’s chest ached even as he squeezed them.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” he told them as he nuzzled into their hair, though he truly did not know what he was telling them they didn’t have to do.

They shook their head against his shoulder. “No, I do have to,” they said, their voice a tad stronger. His dream self relaxed, but there was a thin thread of tension right between his shoulder blades as they went on. “They took my brothers, my mother... Eskel. I have to — I have to do this.”

For some reason, Jaskier’s eyes pricked with tears. Sadness threatened to overwhelm him, weighed heavily on his heart. He cuddled them to his chest protectively. “Gods,” his dream self sniffled. “Who knew you’d be such a stubborn, damned hero.”

The person snorted, taking a step back. He watched, mildly disgusted, as they wiped their eyes and nose on their wrist — he wanted to inspect his doublet, but when he looked down, all he saw was boiled leather. He frowned and opened his mouth to ask why he was dressed like he was going into battle, but when he looked up, the dream had changed.

Smoke hung in the air, the scent of burning acrid in his nose. Jaskier coughed and threw an arm over his mouth, attempting to breathe through fabric, and saw that his forearm was stained with blood. In his fist he held a thin, long dagger, bloodstained and dripping.

He tried to scream, but nothing came out. Instead, it was like his voice was transposed — a woman screamed in the distance, a man cried out in pain nearby. Jaskier whirled in the man’s direction and paused, heart in his throat.

There, in the remains of a burning village, stood the person he’d been cuddling with not seconds before. Their armor gleamed from the fire, parts red and slick with blood. They had a man on his knees before a tree stump in the center of the village, his plated armor dented horribly — Jaskier _knew_ one of his shoulders was broken, somehow. 

Hero — he didn’t know their name, but that’s what he’d called them — had a hand in the man’s hair, pulling his head back and displaying his throat. In their other hand, they had their axe, the blade coated with crimson. One of their boots was pressing into the man’s back, keeping him down.

Jaskier tried to call out to them, to tell them to stop, but he quieted himself. This was important, something in his mind told him, this was _necessary._ Hero looked up and saw him — their face was misted with arterial spray. Their lips were drawn back; Jaskier was horrified to see that even their teeth were stained red. They grinned at him savagely, without humor. He came forward, not of his own volition. He railed against his feet, his stomach roiling, but he went anyway, like this was inevitable.

They didn’t say anything to him as he approached. The man, however, was babbling — he was begging in a language Jaskier didn’t understand. His watery blue eyes were pleading, filled with tears, his face a rictus of fear. Jaskier swallowed past the bile and took Hero’s place, holding the man down with his weight on one foot.

Jaskier’s brain was a white-out of horror. He felt snow blind, stumbling around in his own brain, his thoughts tripping over themselves. Was he helping someone destroy an entire town? The village was ablaze all around them, foundations crumbling, roofs caving in — the shouts of women and children rose behind him, someone calling out for water, to get to shelter.

Hero moved around them, as if in slow motion. Jaskier watched as they shifted their grip on their axe — the man below him trembled and pissed himself. Jaskier tried not to gag at the smell. Hero, on the other hand, bared their teeth wider, their eyes going bright as they snarled, “You’re a pathetic little man, aren’t you?”

The man didn’t even look at them, he just sobbed. Without their hand in his hair, he bent his head low, baring his neck. He said something in his garbled language, something in a familiar chant. Hero laughed, but the sound was ugly and harsh.

“You’re _praying?_ What would the gods do for such a fucking worm?!” they spat at him, the man flinching away from them.

A mumbled sound came out of Jaskier’s mouth — he wasn’t paying attention, not really, too transfixed on the man struggling beneath him. He tried to move his body away, tried to let the man up, but it was like railing against stone. His body was not his own. He watched, terrified, as Hero adjusted their grip on their axe, bringing it up to their shoulder.

Hero looked at him, their pale eyes almost black, reflecting the light of the inferno around them. They nodded at him, a slow dip of their head. In the dream, Jaskier felt himself nod back.

 _No, no, no!_ His inner voice screamed as Hero hefted their axe. The man beneath his foot let out a low keen. Jaskier wanted to beg, wanted to plead with this person to let the man go, to let _Jaskier_ go, he didn’t want to see a man die—

The arc of the axe was swift. He felt the _thunk_ beneath his boot, the way the man’s body began to spasm. Red mist flew back and hit Jaskier in the face — his mouth had been open with wordless cries, and he _tasted_ the iron from the blood, the salt.

Jaskier’s vision spun, but he could see Hero drop the axe. He stared, disgusted, as they picked up the man’s head from where it landed, having only tumbled a little after it was detached from his neck. Their gloved fingers curled in the man’s hair and brought it up. They hoisted the head high, heedless of the blood dripping from it. The world threatened to spin off its axis, and Jaskier heard a cry of victory as the world went black around him, his body tumbling through space.

He woke retching. Scrambling, Jaskier ripped himself out of the bedroll and headed to the treeline, where he vomited violently. He cried as he heaved; he could still taste iron in his mouth, smell the smoke in his lungs, the fear that hung in that village like a sinister cloud.

When he finally stopped retching, Jaskier blinked blearily at his surroundings. He was back in the forest around Lower Posada. The bedroll he stumbled out of was still Geralt’s — he smelled its stink on his clothes. Mid-morning light shone brightly through the trees, turning the world a delightful evergreen. It was almost too cheerful after such a nightmare.

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathed. He rubbed at his eyes, hard enough to make spots bloom behind his lids. “Geralt?” he called as he staggered back toward the camp. His eyes adjusted slowly, but he saw the remains of their fire, the conspicuous absence of Geralt’s own bedroll.

Jaskier cursed. Of course. _Of course,_ he’d hitch himself to a witcher in spite of his fae godparent, or whatever the fuck, and then have the worst nightmare of his life, only to have said witcher _gone before he woke up._

“You’re an idiot, Julian,” he muttered to himself, throwing his belongings back into his pack. At least Geralt didn’t try and take Filavandrel’s lute with him. It might’ve bought the witcher a pretty penny.

“Who’s Julian?”

Jaskier squealed. Geralt stood behind him, his horse — Roach, what an ugly name for such a beautiful creature — donned in his customary black armor, one eyebrow raised. He looked dashing in a _I-could-cut-you-up-and-eat-you_ kind of way. Jaskier decided that it was horribly unfair, as he probably looked like death warmed over.

As predicted, Geralt’s nose wrinkled at him, his catlike eyes narrowed into slits. “You smell like vomit,” he said accusingly.

Jaskier harrumphed, putting his hands on his hips indignantly. “Very astute, Geralt, you are quite the observationalist.”

The witcher’s mouth twitched slightly. Jaskier didn’t know if it was in a smile or a frown. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Oh.” Jaskier blinked, and then bent down to retrieve his bags. Geralt was _obviously_ waiting for him; it wouldn’t do to keep a suitor waiting long. It also gave him a brilliant excuse to not look the witcher in the eye. “Julian is my given name. It’s something terribly generational, not worthy of any interest. I much prefer Jaskier.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said. He shifted on his feet as Jaskier finished getting ready. When Jaskier straightened, attempting to blind Geralt with one of his sunniest smiles, the witcher was staring intently at the remains of the campfire. “Did the meat make you sick?”

The question was asked gruffly, but Jaskier’s smile softened. Geralt was hardly a butcher at all, not like the person in his dream. He was worried about Jaskier, someone he thought was just a simple human man, someone he hadn’t known for very long at all. _You are worth it, aren’t you?_ Jaskier thought, something soft and beautiful unfurling in his chest.

The emotions of the past eight hours were threatening to overwhelm him. He tried not to let it show — he shouldered his bag and grinned, telling the witcher, “No, my dear, you didn’t poison me with your horrendous campfire meal. I will, however, be requiring a proper meal sometime today, so we _must_ get out of Posada, or I _will_ be forced into drastic measures.”

“We?”

Jaskier snorted at Geralt’s disbelieving tone. “You’re cute, witcher. Did you think you were getting rid of me after all?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. Geralt hemmed and hawed and blustered, but Jaskier saw right through him — the man was in dire need of companionship, but more than that, he liked Jaskier. He was all saddled up — Roach was practically chomping at the bit — but he’d waited around for Jaskier to wake up. He _wanted_ Jaskier with him.

Geralt grunted, but made no effort to confirm or deny his claims. He tugged on Roach’s reins. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes tracked Jaskier’s movements until he was beside him, walking side-by-side as they exited the forest.

When they reached the road, Jaskier allowed himself one final look behind him. From where he stood, the trees were just beautiful; there was no cloud of dread or the stink of fear. And yet his mind whirled, and he vowed to himself, _I will never come back here._ His body was still pumped full of adrenaline — the nightmare had been so real.

 _If you ever need us, we will find you._ Bláthnat’s many voices echoed in his mind. Jaskier closed his eyes briefly, his mouth pursed, breathing through the ache in his chest. He had a feeling the fae had something to do with his dream, but he did not know what. The dream had the same _flavor,_ like the magic that had animated the zither, the way the forest went quiet and contemplative around Jaskier when Bláthnat had called out for him.

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s rough voice called, and Jaskier snapped out of his thoughts. He turned away from the dark trees, falling in step behind Roach. He didn’t need to know the answers yet. He had a long, bright Destiny ahead of him, after all, and no bloody deaths on his hands.


	2. One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!! :) This chapter is where our story _really_ starts. It is mostly exposition though and _very_ OC-Heavy, so again, if this isn't your style, I am sorry!
> 
> **Warnings:** _implied/referenced childhood trauma, discussion of canon and original character death, and discussed fantasy racism._

Greenbow, Rivia and Lyria

October 13th, 1264

The township of Greenbow was a tiny little settlement, much more of a _village_ rather than a town, or so Jaskier thought. The great merge of Rivia and Lyria was still the talk of the Continent, inviting plenty of interested minstrels and historians alike.

There hadn’t been an amalgamation of kingdoms since the union of Kovir and Poviss almost a century before. There was _still_ unease between Redanians and Kovirians, even though the two factions had been sworn to neutrality. Jaskier remembered his father and his grandfather griping about discontent on the northern border of Gelibol, along the banks of the Buine. Lettenhove Estate had not produced any winning horseflesh the year of the merger, so their family’s lands had struggled financially, what with soldiers on both sides pillaging settlements and leaving them destitute.

In contrast, the settlement of Greenbow was remarkably well-off, for a backwater town. The houses were reinforced with white plaster, their gabled roofs thatched well and waterproofed. The heart road was incredibly well-maintained and even. Even horribly hungover, Jaskier had no trouble shambling his way to the inn, its cheery hanging sign squeaking horrendously in the gentle wind off the river.

The Bumpy Cup was an inviting place, warm despite the early autumn chill. Even in daylight the inn was pleasantly dim, with sturdy dark wood furnishings and a huge hearth at the front wall, the mantle decorated with etchings of the owner’s family. The air smelled of cooking meat and herbs at all hours. A bearskin laid out in front of the fire, snarling mouth facing the front door, and there was even a small, raised platform to the right of the hearth, angled so that entertainers may get a full view of their audience.

Jaskier had stumbled upon Greenbow just as many other traveling bards had: accidentally on purpose. He’d been escaping a stubborn tail — a single man on horseback that had been trailing him since Oxenfurt — when he’d literally stumbled upon the town. It was rather renowned, but the location of it was spotty — no one seemed to know where to put the village on accessible maps. 

The settlement was old. Older than the construction of Scala, a fortress to the east. It’s said that the roots of Greenbow were deeper than the great walls of Rivia, their closest neighbor. Bards and historians _loved_ it, especially the stuffy Oxenfurt types, because of this.

Jaskier was intimately familiar with Greenbow through the ramblings of Valdo Marx, who claimed that the “quaint little village inspires a rustic view of the world,” which is a load of horseshit, in his opinion, but never let it be said that _Valdo fucking Marx_ get to see a famed location before Jaskier, much less in a time of political intrigue, which was _Jaskier’s_ bag, thank you _very_ much.

Now, if someone pointed out that Greenbow was also in a convenient location close to the Rivian winter capital, where a certain white-haired witcher was known to pay homage at the turning of autumn, well. Jaskier certainly hadn’t known about that beforehand.

In fact, he hadn’t known it so well, that when he’d arrived at Greenbow, he’d immediately decided to get piss drunk instead of asking educated questions about the history of the village. He’d been exhausted and despairing, having pushed a faster pace than he was used to now, with the distant threat of a lone rider. He had practically fallen dead onto one of the Bumpy Cup’s stools. The barkeep, Ilse, had been more than amenable to his drunken ramblings, rather than his scholarly intrigue.

He searched for Ilse’s guiding light now. She was a beautiful woman, thick of thigh and broad of shoulder, with mousy brown hair tied delicately in a chignon at the back of her head. She spoke with a delightful Rivian accent, and _no,_ he didn’t just think it was delightful because of a certain _witcher,_ he’d _always_ thought the Rivians’ accent was charming.

The lovely Ilse grinned at him when he approached her bar, scraggly-haired and bleary-eyed. “You look like hell, minstrel,” she drawled, and Jaskier groaned.

He collapsed onto one of the barstools and promptly plonked his head on the bartop. Ilse was a _wonderful_ barkeep — the bar was spotless, and didn’t even smell of ale. “I think I’ve seen my own demise,” he whined, resisting the urge to grind his throbbing forehead into the wood. “It’s vomiting up my tortured soul, tended to by your faithful, loving, broad, beautiful hands. Ilse, will you mourn me?”

She snorted and smacked the back of his neck hard enough to sting. Jaskier hissed and sat up, pouting, as Ilse polished one of her drinking horns. Her brown eyes were warm and mischievous as she said, “I won’t miss your whinging, you turd. But you’ve got a good voice — the Old Man wants you to stay a while. He’s been waiting for you to talk to him. You should feel lucky,” she said, a secret smile on her face, “none of your ilk has been invited to chat with him.”

Manfully ignoring the insult, Jaskier sat up straighter in his stool. Rodrik, or the Old Man as he was colloquially known, was the most ancient person in Greenbow. He was gray-haired, with a craggy face and beady black eyes, and a gray beard that brushed the floor as he walked. The dwarf had the most fantastic gold-plated doublets, all in rich silks. He looked like he had _amazing_ stories to tell.

“He asked for me?” Jaskier gasped, delighted, despite his aching head. He’d been salivating to get to know the dwarf the night before, but was told off by the big, beautifully burly blacksmith named Barnabas. Jaskier much preferred dwarves to elves, but if pressed, he preferred either of them to humans. The Elder Races just seemed to _know_ he was like them, instead of just a regular human, and dwarves were always keen to know more about the fae rather than fear them, the way some elves did. And Rodrik was so old, perhaps he’d be willing to part with some of his information on the world, the way a certain witcher was not.

Ilse’s smile warmed; she was a protective woman, and the Old Man was now one of her charges, he understood. Ilse’s husband had passed the previous spring in one of Rivia’s inner-city skirmishes — dwarven ghettos were being purged more frequently now that refugees from Cintra moved east. Rodrik, Jaskier had learned, had been the one to bring Bjorn’s body back to the Bumpy Cup, and had helped Ilse with the funerary expenses.

“Aye, he’s been keen on getting to know you. Says he heard your voice and had a memory.” Ilse paused in her polishing to consider him, and Jaskier was reminded that he had a penchant for finding kind, intelligent, brutal people. Through lowered lashes, Ilse murmured, “If Rodrik is asking for you, you best be on your best behavior, bard. I don’t think you’re one of them prejudiced types, ‘cause of your songs ‘bout the White Wolf, but we don’t take kindly to any funny business in Greenbow. Especially where the Old Man is concerned.”

Far from offended, Jaskier nodded seriously. “Of course, Ilse. You have nothing to worry about from me, and neither does fair Ser Rodrik.”

Ilse narrowed her eyes at him for a moment, and relaxed when she found him sincere. She went back to studiously polishing her cups, a small smile playing about her mouth. “Well, then. You should get going, bard — the Old Man is over by the smithy in the mornings, harassing Barnabas. You won’t be able to miss ‘em.”

Jaskier grinned. He had been _delighted_ by Barnabas the night before, seeing as he’d drank the poor man under the table for his trespasses against him for gate-keeping Rodrik. Jaskier had left him drunkenly snoring on the tabletop. Ilse’s mead was _truly_ deadly. 

Remembering the mead, Jaskier winced; his head was killing him, and talking to a potential muse with a hangover was a bad look, even for a traveling bard. “Fine, fair mistress, your direction is superb, but I have one last question for you, the purpose of my visit. Do you have it in your heart to—”

“No.” Ilse said, the smile turning into a blinding grin. She teased, “It’d take too long to get you well from mead, and Rodrik doesn’t like to be kept waiting. You’ll just have to suffer for now.”

Jaskier hissed again, feigning a wounded heart. “Cruel woman! Vile creature, tempting me with your wares and turning me away at the door—”

Ilse snorted, “I’ll show you a cruel woman, you ridiculous man.” She shoved at his shoulder, lightly for her, but it still made Jaskier tumble to his feet. He pouted at her, rubbing his shoulder indignantly as she laughed. “Go, find Rodrik. If your head still hurts, he’ll send for something to heal you so you can be right as rain for your performance tonight.”

Content with this, Jaskier blew her a noisy kiss as he collected his things. Ilse made a disgusted face but chuckled, and Jaskier held the sound of Ilse’s laughter in his heart, warming him from the inside out.

As he braved the bright sunshine of midmorning, Jaskier couldn’t help but feel endeared to Greenbow. He’d feared it would be too gimmicky — Valdo Marx surely wouldn’t be able to brave the _real_ Continental wilderness and its harsh climate — but instead it was just… quaint. A sleepy old village, with invested townspeople and a fierce love of their way of life. All the people of Greenbow seemed to detest the overarching theme of human superiority that tainted the north, not just Ilse. It was refreshing, to say the least. An ancient settlement unstained by the folly of humanity and human-adjacent species was not only rare, Jaskier thought, but practically unheard of.

Jaskier followed the smell of forge-smoke to the smithy. It was on the other end of town, but it wasn’t as if Greenbow was all that large — it wasn’t hardly a league from stem to stern. Still, the sunlight seemed to burn his overly sensitive eyes, so he imagined he looked _incredibly_ dashing when he arrived, squinting and red-cheeked.

Barnabas’s forge was the second largest building in Greenbow. It had to be — he and his smithing partner, Kasimir, had adopted at _least_ six brats from the siege of Cintra. Jaskier had been entertained by them when he arrived the previous day. A haughty twelve-year-old had been leading them, loudly describing Greenbow to him as Jaskier tried to find the inn.

The brats seemed to be asleep now, or out in the fields, or doing whatever rowdy children did in the morning hours. Instead, he found a haggard-looking Barnabas bent over his bellows, his skin gone ruddy under his black beard from the heat and his hangover. The man was _easily_ fifteen stone. His arms were bare, the white linen of his work shirt soaked with sweat as he panted — Jaskier would be imagining another, lewder scene, if it weren’t for the existence of Kasimir and his unfounded fondness for the village as a whole.

Still, Jaskier smirked at Barnabas as he approached, putting a little swing to his hips. “Good _morning,_ my smithing treasure,” he said brightly. He watched in satisfaction as Barnabas groaned, shaking his shaggy dark hair away from his face.

Barnabas stood to his full height, a clear head taller than Jaskier himself. Feeling a little fresh, Jaskier cocked his hip against one of the forge’s beams, grinning. “It seems that there truly isn’t any rest for the wicked. How _is_ your head doing this morning, Barnabas dear?”

The man laughed, flashing straight white teeth. “Hurts like hell, bard, like you don’t know.” Barnabas grinned, and Jaskier was very pleased to watch as the blacksmith tied his long hair away from his face, muscles flexing. “Don’t know how you can hold your mead when you’re so small, but I’ll know to never challenge a minstrel to a drinking contest ever again.”

“Don’t worry about my estranged ilk, you’d beat them all. I, however, am stronger than I look,” Jaskier preened, and grinned when Barnabas laughed again.

“As you say. What brings you to the forge this morning, Jaskier?” he asked, pleasant and carefree in the way that all taken men are. Jaskier sighed internally.

Still, he hopped up onto Barnabas’s workbench and said imperiously, “I am here to whisk you away from your beloved and introduce you to a fruitful life of vagabondry, where we live off of my fantastic voice and renown and your beautiful metal trinkets.” When Barnabas snorted, rolling his eyes, Jaskier huffed. “Fine, I admit it. I’m here for a good story, Barnabas dear, and was told by a very reliable source that one Ser Rodrik of Mahakam was looking to tell it.”

Barnabas chuffed, dark eyes twinkling. “Ah, yes, the Old Man said something about entertaining a minstrel. Wait here.”

“Where else would I go?” Jaskier asked, spreading his hands. Barnabas rolled his eyes and disappeared into the smithy, a fond smile on his face.

He didn’t need to wait long. Not even a minute after Barnabas disappeared, he returned, a small smile on his face. “The Old Man asked if you’d come inside. The heat can sometimes bother him,” the blacksmith explained, and Jaskier shot up, nodding furiously.

“Yes! Yes, of course — I’d _much_ prefer to be out of the sun as well, I’m sure you understand,” he told him, and smiled when Barnabas laughed and clapped him good-naturedly on the shoulder, ushering him inside.

The smithy had a low ceiling and a central firepit, dug into the ground. A spit hovered over the unlit coals, and sitting pillows were arranged around the pit itself, suggesting that’s where the blacksmith and his family ate. A staircase led up to the apartment upstairs, where Jaskier could hear soft snores, presumably one of the children. In the far edge of the room was a table covered with leather sheaths, and at the head of the table sat the Old Man himself.

Rodrik of Mahakam was slender in his old age, especially for a dwarf. He had deep wrinkles in his forehead and around his mouth, and his skin was like tanned leather. His hair, beard and eyebrows were bushy and steel-colored, and he seemed to move with great difficulty underneath his customary metal-accented clothing, but his black eyes were sharp, intelligent, and could strip you down to your essence in a second. Jaskier had only met him briefly, had never heard his voice, but with the reverence the townspeople had for him, he knew that the Old Man was worthy of respect.

It was a testament to how much Jaskier had grown up that he took that information and yielded to it, instead of barreling through and causing a mess. Jaskier bowed shortly at the waist when he came to meet Rodrik and said, “Good morning, Ser Rodrik. I am called Jaskier — Ilse has informed me that you’d like to meet with me. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Visibly impressed, Barnabas barked out a laugh. When Jaskier sent him a look, the smith explained, “I’ve never heard you talk so nice, bard. Why didn’t you introduce yourself to me that way, instead of being an insufferable prick?”

“Because _you’re_ an insufferable prick,” Jaskier snapped back, and then grimaced. _Damn him,_ but he was looking to make a good first impression.

Barnabas roared with laughter, heedless of the snores upstairs. It made Jaskier crack an uncertain smile — when he chanced a look at Rodrik, the dwarf was smiling too, shoulders shaking in silent amusement.

The Old Man dipped his head in greeting. “It’s good to see that you have some teeth, lad,” the dwarf said, approving. His black eyes were piercing as he studied Jaskier. “Too many minstrels come to Greenbow looking for powdered hands and a pretty story. Tell me, are you looking for words, or the truth?”

The question’s wording made him pause. It reminded him of another time, in a dark wood outside of Posada, listening to a chorus of voices lecture to him about their laws. 

“I imagine all good stories start with truths, at first,” Jaskier said slowly, carefully keeping eye contact with Rodrik, “but good stories are rarely pretty, and most times they’re not as truthful. I’m not looking for beauty, Ser Rodrik, as much as I enjoy the finer things. I don’t expect you to spin a tale for me. That is my job, after all.”

Rodrik’s eyes shone brightly, the way polished onyx did in his father’s old rings. “I’m no ser, lad, but you’ve got good answers. You’re an honest man.” It couldn’t be further from the truth, but Jaskier smiled at the compliment anyway. The dwarf gestured for him to sit with one huge, gnarled hand, and Jaskier did so, gently propping his lute against his chair.

Barnabas knocked on one of the chairs, smiling fondly at them. “I’ll leave you to your truths, Old Man,” he told Rodrik, and winked at Jaskier before he turned to leave. Jaskier smiled back; Barnabas was a good man, and even if Jaskier left Greenbow without a single scrap of inspiration, he’d be happy to know that he’d made several friends before he left.

Rodrik leaned his elbows on the table, jarring Jaskier from his thoughts. The old dwarf was watching him, stroking his silver beard thoughtfully. “You’ve got a busy mind, lad,” he told Jaskier, “and a busier heart. What _really_ brings you to Greenbow?”

Nerves pooled unnecessarily in Jaskier’s stomach. He’d not thought about the rider behind him since he got to the village, overcome by thoughts of Geralt and war. He tried to smile at Rodrik, thinking of a way to wiggle out of telling the truth without outright deception. “I came here to know more about the history,” he started, thinking of Valdo’s imperious glare. “The settlement is old, and yet it remains a mystery — Greenbow isn’t on any of the Continental maps, did you know?”

Rodrik stared at Jaskier closely, and said nothing. Jaskier felt his smile grow pained. “There’s not much of the Continent I haven’t seen, and a road untraveled truly drives me mad—”

Rodrik snorted, cutting him off. At Jaskier’s startled look, the old dwarf said, “You’re _lying,_ lad. You can’t expect me to tell you the truth if you start lying to me first.”

_Damn,_ Jaskier thought, and let go of the puffed up Oxenfurt professor he’d donned. Rodrik was right, and judging by the way his black eyes glittered, he wasn’t going to accept half-truths or white lies. The dwarf had a worldly aura, and a take-no-shit attitude that Jaskier found both intimidating and admirable. But in the end, it was weariness that dispelled his storytelling, and Jaskier let his defenses fall, revealing the tired man underneath.

“Greenbow is in old Rivia,” Jaskier told Rodrik, like the words were being dragged out of him.

Rodrik raised one fluffy eyebrow, intrigued. “So it is, lad.”

Jaskier nodded, refusing to blush. “I am Redanian by birth,” he said, and watched as understanding dawned on Rodrik’s face. Jaskier smiled wryly. “Yes. I know I don’t look it, but I am old enough to remember the aftermath of Kovir and Poviss’s amalgamation. The damage lasted nearly eighty years.

Every peasant in the northeast suffered,” Jaskier said, and surprised even himself by the sadness he was feeling. He blinked back the emotion firmly. “And when the humans suffer, so does everyone else, every _thing_ else. But no one remembers them — the human peasants or the Elder Races. Not a single nobleman, not a baron I’ve ever known, remembers how their people struggled to survive.”

Jaskier ducked his head, remembering one baron caught in a mind control spell, and a manor being burned, an elf that starved himself for a chance to be loved. He remembered an ambitious, violet-eyed sorceress, onyx rings on a heavy hand, ivy and wisteria crumbling a stable to the ground, a rider dressed in all black — and shook himself violently. When he looked back up, Old Man Rodrik was staring at him with interest, his fingers paused mid-stroke in his beard.

His smile was shaky when he aimed it at Rodrik, but it was genuine. “I suppose I wondered if Greenbow was still peaceful, in the face of such tragedy,” he said, his voice cracked open. “Rivia has always been a source of… belief, for me, for some reason.”

“Any particular reason why?” the dwarf asked, curious and nonjudgmental. Jaskier’s shoulders relaxed slightly, grateful at Rodrik’s tolerant questioning.

Jaskier shrugged, a small smile on his lips. “At first I think it was the industry,” he confided, curling his hands self-consciously around his lute. “Rivian metalworking is divine, especially dwarven work; that’s not flattery, ser, that’s fact. And so close to Mahakam; I decided I wanted to live in Rivia when I was a child, just to see the mountains. We don’t have many of those in Redania,” he said conspiratorially.

Rodrik barked out a laugh, and it sounded like a hammer on an anvil. Jaskier grinned at the sound. Still, he had to finish his tale, so he took a fortifying breath and said, “There’s another reason.” He winced when Rodrik raised his other eyebrow at him. “I know, I know. But I have many reasons for many things, and I’ve never marketed myself as uncomplicated!”

“I suppose not,” Rodrik said, smiling. “Having another reason beside hope is common, though somehow I believe for you, it’s just as extraordinary.”

Jaskier frowned slightly. He hadn’t considered _hope_ to be the reason he stepped foot in Greenbow, but he decided that it wasn’t any worse of a reason than morbid curiosity. Surely he had _wanted_ to hope that Greenbow had beaten the odds, but he wasn’t foolish enough to actually _believe_ it.

The second reason, the one more shameful than hope in humanity and people, was also more selfish. He’d guarded it close to his chest, denied it to everyone who asked, and yet none of that made it less true, or less hurtful. “I also came here to… search for an old friend,” Jaskier confessed to Rodrik, hating how small his voice sounded. He hadn’t sounded so uncertain, so afraid, since he was nine years old, trembling in Bláthnat’s arms. He hadn’t been this afraid even as he watched the rider he’d ran from grow closer, practically pushing him into Greenbow.

Rodrik blinked at him, his face imperceptibly softening. “You were hoping to find them in Greenbow?” the dwarf asked, clearly about to offer aid, and Jaskier shook his head quickly.

“No, no. He… I don’t know if he comes to Greenbow, but he passes through Rivia on his way north, where he winters. Something to do with an errant knighthood, I have no idea.” Jaskier said, his heart clenching as he whispered, “I haven’t seen him in over a year. I was hoping just to hear of him passing through, or to know if he’s still alive, at least. The war… I haven’t seen him. I’m afraid for him. Gods, I probably outran an _assassin_ for him.”

“Ah,” Rodrik said. When Jaskier looked up at him, his black eyes were all-knowing. “It is just as extraordinary as hope, then. You love him.”

The words pierced him, made tears prick at the corners of his eyes, but he grit his teeth against the pain. This was a game of truths, and Jaskier was willed by blood to win. “Yes,” he ground out, his fingers white around the neck of his lute, “but he doesn’t feel the same. In fact, he thinks I am — I’m paraphrasing here but he said something remarkably similar — I am the reason why his life is shit, and I’m not worth anything.”

A melancholy look passed over Rodrik’s face. The dwarf was sad for him, but in an abstract way — the way an extended family member may feel about a great-grandchild having an accident, or a father of a man whose decades-old flame died. Sympathetic, and touched, but not pitying, even when Jaskier’s tears threatened to fall.

“Well,” Rodrik said, gruffly. “Well. He sounds like a right bastard, lad, and I am not sorry to say it.”

Jaskier blinked at him, and then laughed, a watery, relieved sound. “Yeah, I think so too,” he said thickly. Rodrik gave him a warm smile.

They sat in silence a moment, presumably for Jaskier to get himself together. Jaskier plucked half-heartedly on his lute, a melancholy tune slowly spinning in his mind. It was something much more suited for a flute, but he was never interested in learning the instrument. He could feel Rodrik watching him, but he didn’t dare look up, lest he have to spill more truths to the old dwarf.

Finally, Rodrik sighed, and Jaskier carefully tapered off his notes. The dwarf regarded him warmly, his smile approving as he said, “You’ve got talent in your hands, bard, and power in your voice — a busy mind and a busy heart. You’re honest even though it hurts.” Jaskier flushed at the compliments, pride burning in his belly. The dwarf’s smile widened as he asked, “What do you want to know, lad?”

Thrilled, Jaskier began to pester all sorts of answers out of Rodrik. The dwarf was actually older than Jaskier had originally thought — he had been a boy when Aelirenn’s Uprising had failed, and only had the faintest memory of how it ended. The elves lost almost all ability to reproduce from the massacre, causing the end of their race — apparently, Rodrik half-remembered a discussion between his mother and father, where they both lamented the end of the elves.

“It would be a barren place without them, lad,” Rodrik sighed, stroking his beard. “Between the Aen Seidhe and the faerie races, that’s where we get our music, our art. Even us dwarves can appreciate the elves for that.”

Jaskier also learned that Rodrik had set out on his own from Mahakam, to become a master smith. But instead of steel or iron, Rodrik had worked with gold — soft, malleable metals and unbreakable gemstones, turning ore into art. He found his way in Rivia apprenticing under another dwarf at the tender age of thirty, and by sixty-five had ascended into masterhood himself. By the time he was forced from the Rivian ghetto and into Greenbow, he’d made quite the name for himself in the Continent; one of the best jewelers Jaskier knew worked in what was originally one of Rodrik’s shops.

“You have romance in your heart,” Jaskier told Rodrik, leaning his chin on his hand, smiling fondly at the dwarf. “You with your intricate art, bending some brittle thing into beauty. You’re a poet, like me.”

Rodrik laughed and shook his head. “No, no, lad, I’m no bard. I’m a dragon — I hoard my treasures and I’m a greedy son of a bitch.”

Jaskier’s smile didn’t waver. “Sounds like a poet to me.”

He didn’t just learn about Rodrik. The dwarf had a lot to say about Greenbow, about its founders and the treatment the nonhumans got from their human neighbors. When the city of Aldersberg was taken by humans and the elves fled south, Greenbow became a haven. In a last ditch effort against detection, nine elves had bespelled the land and made it impossible to locate. The only way you could find yourself in Greenbow, Rodrik told him, was if you were in need. In need of medical attention, or spiritual guidance, or threat to your person — lost souls found their way to Greenbow, always. But when they left, it came at a price.

“You’ll never find your way back here again, lad,” Rodrik said gravely. “Remember that when you leave.”

Jaskier had some idea of how chaos worked, so he frowned at the old dwarf. “That sounds like quite the spell,” he murmured, a little doubtful.

Rodrik’s face was severe. “Aye, lad, it is. Blood magic has a terrible price. Their graves are at the foot of the hill, north of here,” the dwarf said, gesturing in the direction of the road. “Once you pass their markers, you’ll begin to forget how you got to Greenbow. You’ll keep your memories inside it,” Rodrik assured him, probably because of the look of horror on his face, “but you’ll forget how you came. The land protects itself, and everyone on it.”

A fissure of fear lanced up his spine. Blood magic was powerful, and old, latent curses on the land were even more so. Jaskier shuddered to think of the nine mages who died after casting such a spell. For a moment, he allowed himself to think of Yennefer, her ambition and her power. He’d never felt anything of her like — even Bláthnat, the old, ancient being that they were, couldn’t match Yennefer’s magic. He wondered if she would make the decision to save her town, her people, instead of only herself. He wondered if she was even capable.

He hadn’t heard of her, after the Battle of Sodden. He hadn’t exactly been _looking_ for information at the time, having been in Oxenfurt under various assignments, but… He’d wondered. He’d let himself ponder whether or not she was alive.

At the end of their talk, the sun had dipped low enough to pinken the autumn sky. Rodrik escorted Jaskier to the door, the bard holding out his arm for the old dwarf to take, making sure not to step on his beard. 

As soon as he stepped out into the light, Jaskier squinted and suppressed a groan of pain. Throughout the day he’d become even more dehydrated — his headache was back in full force, and it demanded attention. Jaskier shielded his eyes from the sunset, wincing, and Rodrik laughed, loud and boisterous for an old man.

“You got bit by Ilse’s mead, didn’t you?”

Jaskier groaned and chuckled, despite the nausea. _“Gods,_ yes, I’d forgotten how much it hurt while we were chatting,” he confessed, and the old dwarf snorted, slapping him on the arm. The hit stung — _why_ did everyone in Greenbow show their affection through physical harm? Jaskier scowled and rubbed at the skin half-heartedly.

Rodrik made it better by saying, “I’ll send something over to the Cup for you. It’s a miracle — works on all us nonhumans,” while tottering toward town. 

Jaskier muttered, “Thank Melitele,” before realizing what the old dwarf actually _said,_ and squawked, “I mean — what — _Rodrik!”_

The dwarf laughed so hard he wheezed, but he didn’t look back at Jaskier’s aghast expression. “Can’t fool an old dwarf, Jaskier the Bard!” he called carelessly into the wind. “I reckon I’ll see your set tonight — sing something for me!”

Jaskier scowled at the back of the dwarf’s stubborn head. “Foolish old dwarf,” he muttered, slinging his lute over his shoulder and fussing with the strap. When he passed the anvil and bellows, he noticed that Barnabas was nowhere to be found — the sound of children laughing echoed through town, so he assumed the blacksmith was out getting supper with his family. Gods knew how much it took to feed six children.

With nothing else to do, and no one else to pester, Jaskier retraced his steps to the Bumpy Cup. Spending the evening before a set in his rooms wasn’t _ideal_ for his performance anxiety, but it seemed like it was the only thing left to do.

When he arrived, the early supper crowd was already inside — Jaskier noted a few familiar people from the night before, including Barnabas and his family, the six children all in various states of stuffing their adorable little faces. Ilse spotted him from the bar and grinned at him. She had customers, though, so Jaskier just wiggled his fingers at her on his way up the stairs.

His room was one of four, and at the end of the hall; he dropped his lute carefully on the bed before collapsing onto it himself. In spite of his hangover, he felt lighter than he had in years. If he was honest with himself, Jaskier thought with a sigh, the way he was feeling now was the best he’d felt since he left Lettenhove. Sure, Oxenfurt was wonderful — there he’d met Little Eye, his closest friend, and Valdo, despite his personality, was an excellent musical nemesis. City life agreed with him; an abundance of people to interrogate, endless business, bars and shops abound. But the city didn’t care for him, didn’t love him, the way that a home should. And with Geralt… 

_Well, with Geralt,_ Jaskier thought, the distant sadness turning to bitterness in his mouth. The witcher had made it clear that Jaskier was not his friend. A person couldn’t be someone’s home, anyway, and it’s not like Geralt had ever even considered settling down somewhere at all, much less with him. No, Jaskier had been right that first day of Geralt’s acquaintance — heartbreak and heroics, an adventure, but not a home, not an identity.

Growing up he’d been two people: his mother’s Dandelion, a cheery, bright-eyed boy who loved the world, and Julian, the heartbroken shadow that was found in the pastures more often than he was found in his lessons. Those boys were both in him still. Jaskier was an amalgamation, a union of Julian and Dandelion; compounded with the _experience_ of Oxenfurt and Geralt.

Over the years, Bláthnat’s teachings helped him understand the power of personhood, and the necessity of having more than one. Fae were not afforded just one identity. They had to be burdened with many, and Jaskier had to learn that the hardest way imaginable.

He could not be controlled with the name Dandelion or Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. He couldn’t even _really_ be controlled with Jaskier. He was all, and none, and the laws of the fae could no longer hold him.

Granted, no one had ever _tried._ Only his family knew of his heritage, and he hadn’t been back to Lettenhove in half his life. Geralt didn’t know — or if he had, it hadn’t been pertinent information.

_To think he knew so little of me,_ Jaskier sighed, his eyes closing against the thought, _and yet I knew him, better than I even know myself._

A gentle knock on his door drew him out of his melancholy. He hadn’t bothered to lock the door so he just flipped his wrist at it, lazy in his turmoil. “Come in, it’s unlocked,” he called, and the door squeaked open.

“Are you the bard Jaskier, sir?” a voice said, and when Jaskier turned toward it, he realized it was a lanky young boy. His skin was a dark umber, his hair jet black and curly, but his eyes were the palest shade of gray he’d ever seen. He shuffled awkwardly by the door, hands and feet too big for his skinny frame. He was carrying a brown package in his hand.

_He looks like he’s about to faint,_ Jaskier thought. To assuage the poor thing, Jaskier put on his most welcoming smile, and allowed his voice to go round and soothing even as his head pounded. He said, “I am. What can I do for you, dear heart?”

The boy visibly subsided with an exhale. Without the anxiety on his face, he appeared a little older, clearly burgeoning into his teenage years. “Old Man Rodrik asked me mam to deliver this to you, but she’s gotta watch my little brother; he’s sick.” The boy paused, pursing his lips, before he continued, “Mam’s the new healer in town.”

“Oh, thank _Melitele,”_ Jaskier cried. He sat up quickly and reached out without thinking. The boy shied from him like a startled colt, nearly busting his shoulder against the side of the door, his eyes wide.

Jaskier froze. “Hey,” he said softly. The boy flinched again, and Jaskier tried not to frown as he slowly lowered his hands. “Hey, it’s alright, dear. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

The boy breathed out harshly through his nose — Jaskier saw there were tears in his eyes. “You didn’t scare me,” the boy snapped, his voice steadier than it ought to be, with his hands still visibly shaking.

Jaskier knew another boy who sounded like that when he was scared, and angry to be caught as scared. He ached with the memory of him.

Jaskier tried to smile at the youth as he nodded. “Of course you weren’t, love. It was incredibly nice of you to deliver me what Old Man Rodrik wanted me to have, though.” With that, he slowly extended his hand, open-palmed.

The boy studied him for a moment, before apparently deciding he wasn’t a threat. He crossed the room in three strides — he would be _tall_ when he came of age — and carefully placed the box into Jaskier’s hand. “Make sure to drink it all. It might taste gross, but Mam says it helps with the worst headaches. Don’t try and drink Ilse’s honey-wine tonight, or any ale — it’ll make you sick,” the boy said, his voice rote, like someone who had practiced lines over and over again.

“I won’t, thank you,” Jaskier promised, and the boy smiled at him. It lit up his face, gentling his sharp features. Jaskier’s own smile widened in response. “Tell your mother thank you from me.”

The boy bobbed his head as he backed out of the room, his shy grin still in place. “She’ll be here tonight, sitting with the Old Man, even though she hates coming to the inn,” the boy told him, blushing a little, “She’s only watching my brother until our neighbor takes him for the night. You can tell her yourself, if it pleases you.”

Jaskier chuckled, thinking of Rodrik haranguing some poor healer into a long night at the inn. “I will. Thank you,” he said, and the boy flashed a grin at him briefly before dashing out the door, clicking it shut behind him.

He sighed, and inspected the little box. It had a detachable lid, and was made out of some sort of thick brown paper. Inside, Jaskier saw there was a stoppered glass bottle, with a truly disgusting-looking brown liquid inside. When he sloshed the bottle around, the liquid was viscous — it clung to the sides of the glass, and left a green residue. It reminded him entirely too much of Geralt’s witcher potions, come to think of it.

“Melitele preserve me,” Jaskier muttered, but he unstoppered the thing anyway. He took a whiff and promptly sneezed — the scent of mint assaulted his senses, making his eyes water. “Fuck,” he hissed, and held his nose. “Here goes nothing.”

Swallowing the thing was easier than anticipated, though it tasted overwhelmingly of grass. He downed it in three gulps and promptly hacked, the slimy fluid trickling down his throat. It was faintly warm, the way that most magical remedies were, and he sincerely hoped that Rodrik knew what he was doing.

Determining after a few moments that he would not perish, he practiced his set. Thankfully there was no change to his voice — it was as sweet as it ever was, soaring and dipping exactly the way it should. Jaskier smiled to himself, pleased.

His headache dissipated within minutes, and it left him feeling clear, calm, and refreshed, despite his rather emotional day. He felt so much better that he changed his clothes, humming to himself. He donned a stunning pale green doublet with subtle gold brocade, a lacy white chemise, and fine, brown silken trousers. He even brushed a comb through his hair.

Deeming himself ready, the bard swanned out of his room and down the stairs, feeling lighter than air. At the bar, he allowed himself to hop up on a stool and spin in his seat. The other patrons at the bar laughed, but Ilse only rolled her eyes.

“Don’t lie to them, Ilse, you love me!” he crowed, and the barmaid sighed, shaking her head as she pointedly turned away. “Look at you, you fawn for me!” he said, dropping his elbows on the bartop and waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“Are you looking at _me,_ bard, or your reflection?” Ilse drawled, but she slid him an ale anyway, much to the delight of their audience.

“Ah, sweet Ilse, you tempt me, but I am not able to imbibe tonight,” he lamented, pouting even as he pushed the ale away. “I have been _medicated,_ my darling, and must be sober, for my health.”

Ilse’s eyebrows climbed in surprise, but she took the tankard from him anyway. “Shame,” she said, but something about her voice was softer, kinder. “I was hoping for a repeat performance from last night.”

A few men hooted at him from down the bar. The look of warning on Ilse’s face did nothing to deter him. 

Jaskier winked at the drunks, grinning cheekily as he said, “You and every lass this side of Sodden, my dear. Shall I get my ledger?”

The laughs he got were so loud, he couldn’t even find himself to be repentant. Even when Ilse snapped a rag in his face.

Eventually Ilse gave him some water and agreed to scrounge him up some dinner before his show. Successful, Jaskier sipped his drink and surveyed the crowd. Barnabas and his family were still in attendance — Barnabas’s cheeks were ruddy again with drink, his eyes bright and happy, and Kasimir was leaning into him, nearly as red-cheeked. Their gaggle of children were now playing a bastardized gwent game, with no clear winner.

He searched the room until he found the man he was looking for. Rodrik was sitting at the round table closest to the stage, little legs dangling off the floor. He’d changed out of his steel-plated clothing and put on proper silks, a charming red doublet and dark trousers, tucked into shiny boots. His beard was combed, and he’d plaited his hair, tied back so everyone could see his ancient face. Next to him sat a woman in earthy plainclothes, dark hair streaked with gray.

He approached already grinning, and cocked his hip flirtatiously against the table, batting his eyelashes at Rodrik. “My dear dwarf, did you _dress up_ for me?” he teased. Rodrik barked out a laugh, black eyes twinkling.

“Not for you, _duvvelsheyss._ I had to make myself presentable for the lady accompanying me,” the dwarf said haughtily.

“Tease.” Jaskier affected a pout, but he turned his attention to Rodrik’s company, who was watching him with a crooked smile. She was beautiful up close — a pale, heart-shaped face, upturned nose and delicate chin and big, heavy-lidded eyes. They were the same piercing gray as the boy’s, Jaskier thought, and gave into the urge to bow at the waist, just _barely_ resisting kissing the back of her hand. “My lady, if you are the one who saved me from the torture that was the aftermath of Ilse’s honey-wine, I owe you my life. Your tincture rescued me from certain death,” he said, and the woman smiled fully, showing bright, straight teeth.

“Aye, I did cure your hangover,” the woman replied, though her voice was amused, “but I’m no lady, bard.”

“Ah,” Jaskier said, grinning, “if that’s true, my lady, then I’m a dragonslayer.”

The woman snorted, a delightfully inelegant noise. “No one would believe that, but I commend you for trying.”

Jaskier laughed, enjoying her blunt, honest answers. “Precisely! I am exactly as I appear: colorful, charming, unequivocally talented, breathtakingly handsome—”

“A dandy, a ridiculous fop,” the woman drawled, lips twitching, “a habitual drunk, and a bad flirt to boot—”

Jaskier gasped theatrically. “My good woman, have we met before?” he demanded, a hand over his heart, “You seem to already know me.”

The woman laughed, a deep, spine-tingling sound. All the other sounds in the inn paled in comparison. If Jaskier wasn’t sure before, he was _certain_ now — this woman was royalty, or powerful in some other way, because _no one_ could command a room with such ease naturally. Certainly no one had commanded his attention like this before, not since the Countess de Stael, not since _Geralt._

Rodrik caught his eye and smirked at his dumbfounded expression. “Jaskier, this is Vigga of Kagen. She is, in fact, the healer that cured you. Vigga, this dandy is Jaskier the Bard, and he really is as talented as he says he is.”

He was flushed with pleasure at Rodrik’s praise. Still, he had a reputaiton to uphold and a lady to beguile, so he turned the force of his sauciest grin on Vigga. _“Enchanté,”_ Jaskier purred, neatly bowing at the waist. 

Vigga of Kagen smirked at him right back. “Rodrik, I think you duped me into being complicit in some sort of scandal,” she said to the dwarf, all without taking her eyes off of Jaskier. “You know how I can’t stand attention.”

The old dwarf sniffed, but Jaskier could see _something_ twinkling in his dark eyes. “I haven’t done a thing. Destiny, however, works in mysterious ways.”

Jaskier snorted derisively at that. Vigga sent him a curious look, head tilted in an unspoken question, so Jaskier explained, “Destiny has rewarded my brilliance only with a crock of shit, mistress healer — I shan’t count you as part of Destiny’s design on me.”

“Ah,” Vigga said knowingly. “I happen to understand your distaste, Jaskier the Bard.” Her mouth curved wryly, a mischievous little thing. Again, if Jaskier’s heart hadn’t already been spoken for, it would have surely been stolen by one of Greenbow’s residents, and the healer was _clearly_ pulling ahead of the others.

“And this is why I have decided to like you, Vigga of Kagen,” Jaskier informed her. “A friend of mine is a friend of the world — you should be honored.”

It was Rodrik who scoffed this time, although his expression was amused. “Shut your mouth, lad, before Vigga spells it shut,” he laughed, slapping the table with a great, gnarled hand. “Sit! I’ve already told Ilse to bring you a hot meal.”

Jaskier sent Vigga a nervous glance, even as he sat. Sorceresses were generally _not_ his friend, as it happens, and though Vigga seemed even-tempered and not liable to bespell him into some sort of toad, he rather liked to stay on his toes. Vigga, however, simply rolled her eyes at the dwarf.

“I have no magic, just medicine,” the healer said. “Mages aren’t bound to the laws of nature like I am; I have no use for the Brotherhood’s search for power.”

The words were impassioned, and long practiced. Jaskier wondered how often she’d had to put the minds of Greenbow at ease. “Well said, my lady.” 

Vigga looked at him appraisingly, but Rodrik huffed out a laugh. The dwarf’s black eyes glittered as he said to Jaskier, “She’s a good healer, our Vigga. Her son, Viktor, is a fine messenger, fleet of foot — and has good hands to work with Barnabas on the smaller commissions.”

“Viktor is a sweet boy,” Jaskier said warmly to Vigga, remembering the youth’s bright eyes and shy smile. He saw it reflected in his mother when she blushed with the praise.

“Yes. He doesn’t get it from me,” she told him, and Jaskier frowned when the smile on her fair face went sad. “His father is a good man. Viktor and his brother take after him.”

Rodrik clasped her hand in one of his ham-fisted ones. Jaskier resisted the call to do the same. “Trygve did what he had to do, Vigga,” the dwarf told her, voice solemn. Vigga’s expression was pained, but she nodded, eyes shuttered.

Jaskier itched to question her, but the smell of hot stew distracted him. Ilse came to their table, arms laden with food. “I see you’ve dragged Vigga down from her shack,” she crowed, dropping three heaping bowls in front of them. Ilse stood with her hands on her hips afterward, narrowing her eyes playfully at Rodrik. “What have you got planned, you old goat?”

Rodrik scowled at her, even as he ladled his stew. “What is it with you women thinking I have something planned?” he griped, but he was largely ignored in favor of Vigga, who was grinning delightedly at Ilse.

Vigga touched the back of one of Ilse’s hands gently as she said, “Thank you for dinner, Ilse. Did Mathilde do well for you today?”

Ilse’s smile stiffened. She shot a look at Jaskier, nervous, before saying, “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, Vigga.” 

An equally pained look crossed over Vigga’s face before it settled into resignation. She nodded, dark head inclining regally, before ladling up her own stew. Rodrik’s gaze was heavy on Ilse — she took her leave in silence.

Jaskier sat back in his seat, eyeing them warily. He hadn’t seen anyone else inside the Cup beside Ilse. “Is Mathilde your sister, then?” he asked Vigga, keeping his tone light. Vigga glanced at him knowingly.

“My daughter,” she said after a beat, pushing her stew away. Her mouth was pursed as she went on. “I was hoping working for Ilse would help her get more comfortable here. We’ve not been in town long.”

“Oh?” That was interesting. He was told Rodrik didn’t take to people easily; had seen the tests the dwarf put people through first-hand. Vigga must have quite the story to have impressed him, Jaskier thought, and tried not to fidget with excitement in his chair.

As if seeing right through him, Vigga sighed loudly. She shot a despairing look at Rodrik, who was resolutely slurping up stew. Vigga scoffed before leveling him with a venomous glare that made Yennefer of Vengerberg look like a child throwing a tantrum. “I’m not one of your stories, _skald,_ and I don’t say that lightly. If I get wind of my name coming out of your mouth, I’ll relieve your tongue from your head, is that clear?”

Jaskier has been threatened before and he’ll be threatened again, but he wasn’t a _fool._ He met her glare head on. “I won’t sing a single thing about it, despite my piqued interest. I swear it, my lady.”

“Good,” Vigga said decisively, nodding once. “Trygve, my husband, and I were displaced out of Sodden, two years ago. The lords of Cintra were growing uneasy back then, even if Queen Calanthe and her damnable court was content to live with their coiffed heads up their arses. We made it to Greenbow right before the siege of Cintra,” she said, her voice clipped. Jaskier knew it was to cover the pain in her; her knuckles were white against the tabletop. “After, there were a lot of refugees fleeing east, toward Aedirn. I helped heal most of the injured; the dying, I laid to rest. When they were healthy enough, Trygve… wanted to escort them to Vengerberg, where they’d be safe.” Vigga’s cold eyes left him, finally, to stare at her fists on the table. “That was over a year ago, now. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

_You’ll never find your way back here again,_ Rodrik’s voice whispered in his ear. Sorrow welled in his chest for Vigga. “My lady…” he started softly, but Vigga’s gaze cut like a knife when she turned her attention on him.

“I make due. I have three children. I have my craft, and some coin from my store — before Cintran soldiers tore Riverdell to pieces, hunting _spies,_ and burnt it down, _”_ she said, lips curled in a snarl. “Cintra’s arrogance cost good people their families. I buried my oldest daughter and lost my husband because of this fucking war. So no, _skald,_ I don’t have an interesting story. It’s not unique. It’s just as dirty and ugly as every other poor bastard’s, thanks to Cintra and Nilfgaard.”

The words rang around the Bumpy Cup, hushed because of Vigga’s vitriol. Rodrik had stopped eating and was watching them. In their corner, Barnabas and his family were suddenly quiet, cards put away, their heads all bowed. Even the ruffians at the bar were silent. Ilse was dutifully polishing cups, her face red with emotion.

Jaskier was noiseless for once. His heart was beating in his ears — he hadn’t torn his gaze away from Vigga’s, and didn’t intend to. He needed this just as much as she did; the burning absolution of rage, the railing against injustice. In her eyes he saw himself, crying in a smithy about a man who didn’t love him, heartsick over the thought of him dying in Nilfgaard’s war, of a beautiful blonde princess that didn’t deserve the death the gods gave her. He wondered about the princess’s daughter, the girl he was never allowed to speak to but had sung for over the years _._

He may not have been married to Geralt, but he’d lost him; he might not have been related to Pavetta, but she’d perished. Grief was something he knew well.

“No,” Jaskier murmured, not really realizing his mouth was moving, “no, it’s not unique, my lady. But it is important.”

Fresh pain flared in Vigga’s eyes. She broke their staring game first, and for a second, instead of the regal beauty he’d seen when he’d walked in, he saw a tired woman with gray in her hair, just trying to survive.

Jaskier didn’t hesitate before putting his hand over hers this time. Vigga startled at him, but Jaskier shook his head and _held._ She didn’t remove it.

Eventually, the inn returned to its normal noise level. The drunkards at the bar laughed at each other, Ilse snapped orders and jokes, and Barnabas’s children giggled. Instead of joining in, though, he remained silent; there _were_ times he knew to be quiet, despite popular belief. In his stead it was Rodrik who steered the conversation. He gruffly started talking to Vigga about how her boy was progressing in Barnabas’s forge, how well he learned how to work with gold, and that when Viktor was old enough, Rodrik could help him get into a guild. Vigga seemed overjoyed at this — apparently, her daughter Mathilde was a bit of a misfit, and her youngest child was only four. Securing Viktor a trade would do wonders to ease the healer’s mind.

All the while, Jaskier contented himself with holding Vigga’s hand, something deep and primal settling in him that she let him. It was strange, this urge to please — he hadn’t had it since before his mother passed. Not even with Geralt; Jaskier had wanted to make him _happy,_ of course he had, but never this spine-bending need to reassure, to provide. He was practically frothing at the mouth to soothe Vigga’s fears.

_Strange,_ Jaskier thought, as he did not make any move to relinquish his hand from hers.

He was therefore utterly preoccupied when the door to the Bumpy Cup was pushed open. The night air was cool, and Jaskier leaned into it unthinkingly. He mused on the state of the world outside the warm, intimate setting of the Cup, (was it raining or clear? Was the moon full or crescent?) until he heard Ilse’s sharp voice, clamoring above the din of dinner hour: “Oi! Are you lookin’ for a meal, ser, or are you going to stand in my doorway all night?”

Jaskier turned in his seat, grinning, and then froze. Because there, standing in the doorway, was a hulking figure — a very _familiar_ hulking figure, his hood damnably down. His silver hair was tied back, half shorn underneath and shorter than it was when they’d last seen each other. A smaller cloaked person was next to him, shivering in the night air, but Jaskier barely even registered them.

Jaskier’s first thought was: _oh, hells, he looks exhausted. Has he been sleeping?_ His second thought was: _Fuck me, I’ve got to get out of here._

He leapt out of his seat, sloshing some of his stew and Rodrik’s ale. “Bard,” the dwarf growled, then immediately subsided, his black eyes going round with concern at whatever he saw on Jaskier’s face.

“Jaskier?” Vigga asked tentatively, which was nice of her, considering she seemed the type of woman to interrogate and intimidate rather than coddle, bless her. Her gray eyes were worried when he looked at her, and he truly did not know how he’d managed to make such friendly acquaintances with people he’d practically just met, he was charming but not _that_ charming certainly—

Vigga’s hand tightened on his. He gasped, hurt, but suddenly her face was clearer, in focus. “Jaskier, you need to sit down.”

_I can’t, he’ll see me,_ his mouth almost said, but he stopped himself. His new friends were watching him warily. “Vigga, it was delightful getting to know you, but unfortunately I must retire for the evening. Rodrik, I’m sure I’ll see you tomorrow, tell Ilse dinner is on my tab. Goodnight,” he said, his voice a tad shocky. He turned and extricated his hand from Vigga’s, ignoring the pang of loss, and resolutely did _not_ look at the doorway or the bar. In fact, he did not exist in relation to Ilse’s excellent bartop or the outside world, and therefore could not be perceived at all.

He was halfway up the stairs before he heard someone call his name again, and on the landing before he realized it was Ilse’s. A second set of footsteps thundered up the stairs after him. 

“Nope,” he muttered to himself, moving faster, _“nope,_ no, I most certainly am _not_ doing this tonight.”

“Jaskier,” a deep, familiar, gravelly voice said, a voice that absolutely wasn’t Ilse’s.

Jaskier grit his teeth and stopped dead just steps from his room. He was so close. He could reach forward and disappear into his room and Geralt wouldn’t follow, he was too sacrificing and noble and _shitty_ to demand he open the door for him. And that voice was so _sad_ it made his heart hurt, and how was that fair?

“You,” Jaskier said darkly without turning to face the witcher, “are _unbelievable.”_

The floorboards shifted behind him uneasily. “Jaskier.” Geralt tried again, firmer this time, less breathy. Jaskier felt fire in his belly.

He swung around to face the witcher, teeth already bared. How dare he sound so pitiful, when it was _Jaskier_ who’d had his heart ripped out? Granted, yes, Geralt had also been brokenhearted over Yennefer, but he hadn’t had anything to do with that! He hadn’t deserved that treatment. And he didn’t deserve Geralt’s puppydog, childish, _repressed_ repetitions of his name now!

And the witcher _did_ look like a beaten dog. Dark circles hung beneath haggard yellow eyes, making his skin look even paler; his hair was scraggly, unkempt, despite the newer style. His cheeks were leaner, cheekbones more pronounced. Jaskier just _knew_ he wasn’t eating — he’d had to remind Geralt of that over and over again, on the road. Probably putting half his food into his new traveler’s bowl, the chivalrous bastard.

Still, a broken heart was a fickle thing, and fae were even fickler. “What? Come to give me the shovel talk, the _piss off_ lecture? Because let me tell you, witcher,” Jaskier spat, but even furious there wasn’t any hate in the epithet, just discontent, _“I_ got here _first._ And I wasn’t even looking for you!”

Geralt’s brows twitched infinitesimally over tired yellow eyes, and Jaskier _damned_ his heart, or his scent, or whatever the fuck, because Geralt looked like he’d just sussed out Jaskier’s lie, the _confounded man._ His jaw clicked shut and he let out a close-mouthed shriek.

Geralt had the grace to look chagrined. “I’m — sorry,” he said, gravelly and broken. “I was… trying to find safety.”

Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat, the damn thing. Even pissed beyond belief, he still cared about the witcher. He wondered, _Safety from what? Safety for who?_ Geralt of Rivia was one of the most infamous people on the Continent — his prowess was heard from Nilfgaard to Poviss. Geralt of Rivia hardly needed protecting; people _ran away_ from him on principle alone.

_And even if he was outmatched, he didn’t care enough about himself to find sanctuary,_ a little voice chimed in the back of his head that sounded irritatingly like Bláthnat. Jaskier’s chest threatened to collapse on itself as his eyes widened, his mind cleared.

“You found her,” he breathed, shocked. Geralt ducked his head, breaking their odd eye-contact, a silver strand falling in front of his eyes. Jaskier gaped. “Melitele’s fucking _tits,_ Geralt, you _found her.”_

“Bard...” the witcher growled warningly, but Jaskier hardly heard him — his mind was busy _racing,_ because that...

That wasn’t something he’d anticipated. Sure, Geralt had claimed the Law of Surprise, but that generally didn’t mean anything to him — the fae claimed ownership of lots of things, from children to livestock to land, but it was held in abeyance. Meaning, the fae could claim what was theirs at any time, but everything was on _hold_ until then. And like witchers, faeries lived quite a long time — longer than any mortal. Sometimes things would be held in abeyance for centuries. Sometimes, things were held so long that the deal would be forgotten, and the children or livelihood that was promised withered away, oftentimes wondering when they’d be stolen away, or why no one came for them.

So Geralt’s dismissal of the child wasn’t surprising, to Jaskier. He’d long since come to terms with his own failure at Destiny — Hero, in the burning village, bloody teeth and a severed head held high in victory. The visions of his future, of his own Child of Spring, had haunted him since that night in Posada. 

He understood the desire to spit back in Destiny’s face, to flee from it, to cry for mercy from an unfeeling universe; Geralt had only done what Jaskier would have if presented the opportunity.

But to hear that Geralt had _found_ Cirilla, that was… both relieving and frightening. On one hand, Jaskier had liked the girl — she was bright, sharp-tongued and _smart,_ as one would have to be growing up under Calanthe. He’d never spoken to her personally, but he’d heard her speaking with others; Eist, in particular, gave the girl his ear. He was glad she wasn’t dead and buried under the rubble of Cintra.

On the other hand, if Geralt had claimed his Child Surprise, and now seemed inclined to bring her to safety… What did that mean for his own child, presumably out razing innocent villages to the ground?

_“Fuck,”_ Jaskier said. He back hit the wall hard, thumping the air out of his lungs. Tears stung his eyes as his heart turned to ashes in his chest. “Fuck. _Geralt.”_

The witcher took several steps toward him, but stopped just outside of Jaskier’s direct vision. In his periphery, Jaskier saw that Geralt’s hands were clenched into fists by his side.

“I won’t apologize for coming here,” Geralt said, his voice shaking with barely controlled emotion. “But I am sorry, Jaskier. For what I said on the mountain. For everything.”

For the _mountain._ He’s sorry for what he said on the _mountain._ Not for almost twenty years of repeatedly breaking his heart, not for falling in love with a fucking crazy sorceress that almost killed them both, not for blaming his own _stupid decisions_ on _Jaskier,_ of all people, the person who kept telling him to _see sense,_ not for being just that much more _interesting,_ that much more _special,_ for Jaskier to turn his back on his own flesh and blood.

A hysterical laugh bubbled out of his throat as the rage hit a boiling point. When he turned to face Geralt, he knew his eyes were wild, his teeth too-sharp as he grinned angrily. 

“For _the_ _mountain.”_ He hissed, and watched in satisfaction as Geralt blinked in surprise, mouth opening. _“Yes,_ you’re sorry for the mountain, of course you are! Now that you have your Child Surprise, now that you can play at happy families with your witch, you’ve decided that it’s high time you find your old dog Jaskier, after a year of not speaking! You’re _sorry!_ Melitele preserve us, Geralt, do you think I’m _daft?!”_

“Jaskier…” Geralt said for the third time, eyes round and sounding truly heartbroken, and suddenly he’d had _enough._

Jaskier scoffed derisively and pushed away from the wall, quite literally shouldering past Geralt. “I don’t care that you’re here. Just stay away from me,” he snapped. He thundered down the stairs without going into his room, his lute dangling over his shoulder, and determinedly did _not_ look at Ilse, or Rodrik, or Vigga, or Barnabas, or any of his children as he slammed out the door.

Without thinking, his feet took him toward the Yavina. His heart was trembling in his chest, on the verge of crumbling into dust — Jaskier could _feel it._ Beneath the anger and the hurt, there was despair — for himself, for Geralt, for their Children of Surprise. The river burbled on the wind, drawing him forward. He almost too heartbroken to hear the gentle, sweet music of a lap harp, a foggy pull on his mind.

_If you ever need us, we will find you._

Jaskier gasped and forced himself faster. He was at a run before he broke through the scant treeline that separated Greenbow from the river, behind Barnabas’s forge. He crashed through the underbrush to the other side, and nearly sobbed.

On the bank of the Yavina sat a tall, lithe figure, a zither in their lap. Long fingers plucked the strings; the instrument was an old model, just the same as when he’d seen it last. They were wearing a roughspun tunic that was brown in the dim light, and short cloth trousers. Despite the chill of early autumn, their feet were bare and the color of rich, fertile soil — their hair was long and coiled, drawn over their shoulder in an artful waterfall. When they looked up at Jaskier approaching, he saw that their eyes were a bright, impossible purple, the color of his mother’s foxgloves.

_“Bláthnat,”_ Jaskier choked, and the tears he was desperately holding back fell.

The fae dropped the zither without a care and drew him into an embrace. Jaskier gasped into their shoulder, feeling eighteen years old and small, smaller than he’d even felt back then. He curled himself into their arms. They still smelled the same — damp earth and mint, dried tobacco curling at the edges like smoke rings. It was so welcoming that Jaskier pushed his face into their tunic and shook.

“Oh, little flower,” they murmured, drawing thin, bony fingers through Jaskier’s hair, their voices still ethereal, “Our little dandelion. What has hurt you so?”

Jaskier shook his head shakily, grinding his forehead into Bláthnat’s shoulder. For as ephemeral as their meetings were, Bláthnat was always so _solid._ “Destiny,” Jaskier said thickly, uncaring about the tears and snot he was undoubtedly dirtying Bláthnat’s tunic with. “Destiny is hurting me, Bláthnat, Destiny and fucking — fucking _Geralt…”_

“Ah, the White Wolf,” Bláthnat said, their voices quiet but clearly displeased. “We warned you about witchers, child.”

Irritation flared, but was gone just as soon as it came. Fae were _maddeningly_ smug; he knew from experience. Jaskier just sagged into Bláthnat’s shoulder. “That was seventeen years ago,” he mumbled. He remembered that argument well. It’d been the last time they’d seen each other, after all.

Bláthnat continued petting his hair, rocking him, humming softly. “Mmm. Seventeen years for you, Dandelion, and a day or a lifetime for us. Our little flower. Did he hurt you?” their voices sharpened, turned as deadly as the needle-like teeth in their mouth. “Did the witcher bruise you, Dandelion?”

Jaskier snorted. In his mind, he saw Geralt holding a cheery yellow dandelion, only to crush it in his fist. No, Geralt was too gentle for that — he’d never crush a flower just for the hell of it. He needed a purpose. “No,” he tried, clearing his throat to soothe them. “He… He found his Child,” he said. He tried to keep his voice even, but even against the fae’s shoulder, he could see their eyes widen.

“The Wolf has a Child of Spring, too, then,” they murmured. “Interesting…”

Bláthnat’s fingers curled in Jaskier’s hair and gently tugged him up. He whined, unwilling, but he sat up to stare them in the eyes.

Bláthnat was easily one of the most beautiful people on the Continent. Thick, long, coiled braids that shone faintly with river water and rosehip oil, thin, angular brows and a sharp jawline, with skin as black as peat. Their clothes were plain, but jewelry winked on their skin — gold chains adorned their throat, piercings through the shells of their ears and even their nose, an ancient custom not deemed practical for the Nordlings of the Continent. Even their lashes were lined with liquid gold.

Their purple eyes were piercing him, despite the soft expression on their face. “Little Dandelion,” they said indulgently, “your Destiny is brighter than you think it is. Do not despair.”

“How do you know?” he wheedled, and even to his own ears he sounded pitiful, childish. “Geralt’s Child was a _princess,_ and she’s _lovely._ My own…” Blood on white teeth, a severed head in a crimson fist. “My own is… terrible.”

Bláthnat frowned and shook him by his hair, hard. He squawked, tearing out of their grip, but when he scowled at them, they were already lecturing. “Children of Spring are a blessing! They are full of power. The White Wolf’s daughter may have been a princess, but she is more than that now; she is a source, full of both great potential and horror,” Bláthnat snapped. Then, on a dime, their eyes softened. “Our own Child is a great source of power, in his own way. He is both incredibly clever _and_ ignorant. We do love him so.”

Jaskier huffed, scrubbing at the throbbing place on his scalp. The meaning of the word _mercurial_ couldn’t even hold a candle to Bláthnat. “Maybe you should go find him then,” he muttered, but it was weak. He leaned into them, teary, and hoped they understood that he loved them too, despite it all. 

Bláthnat only smiled. “Dandelion, do not be afraid of your Destiny. It is closer than you think.”

A tiny flutter of hope stirred in his belly. Suddenly, he was nine years old again in his mother’s garden, little fingers buried in the roots of buttercups. Jaskier fidgeted, peering up at Bláthnat through his lashes as he asked, small, “Do you think so?”

Bláthnat made a soft, trilling noise and cupped his cheek. It was so reminiscent of the otter they’d been when he was eighteen that he laughed. Their hands were sun-warmed and smooth, like stones on a riverbank. Jaskier closed his eyes, reveling in the feeling. “It is known to us, little flower. Your Child is here, in Greenbow. Is that not what drew you here, in the first place?”

Jaskier’s eyes shot open. At the time, he’d thought it was just professional rivalry compelling him, but Bláthnat’s words unsettled him. He’d almost stopped in Aldersberg, just a week from Greenbow, to the north — that’s when he noticed the rider. He’d thought about doubling back, to head through the mountain passes and damn the bandits, to find refuge in Carreas, or even fucking Vizima.

But in the end, he’d followed his gut, tugging him along the well-worn Continental road, and wound up in Greenbow.

“I don’t know,” Jaskier said, honestly. He sat back on his heels in the pebbly riverside, sighing, “I had a… feeling I should come here.”

The fae nodded sagely. “You haven’t met them yet, child, that’s all,” Bláthnat soothed his unspoken fear, that this was a fluke. Their purple eyes shone with love as he peered into them. “You will feel the need. You will want to reassure them, put their mind at ease, protect them. You will want their name in your mouth.” Bláthnat’s eyes glowed briefly, violet light striking in the dark. “Are you certain there has been no one you felt proprietary toward?”

_I don’t have an interesting story,_ Vigga’s voice rang in his mind. _It’s just as dirty and ugly as every other poor bastard’s, thanks to Cintra and Nilfgaard._

“Fuck,” Jaskier groaned and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, _hard._ “Fuck. I met a woman, at the inn here,” Jaskier confessed, struggling not to tear his hair out. “I held her hand. She was hurting.”

Bláthnat hummed low in their throat, voices swirling in Jaskier’s ears. “We come to them in their time of need. It won’t be as simple as holding hands.” The fae stood from their perch, smooth like water. “Ask not if it is the mother. Instead, think of the child.” With that, they began to untie the laces of their tunic, to Jaskier’s horror.

He gaped up at their naked form and squawked, turning away. It was like seeing a sibling disrobe. Jaskier was _horrified._

“Bláthnat, do you not _warn_ people you’re about to be naked?!” he screeched, and only looked back over when the fae laughed brightly. Jaskier stared at them incredulously. “Are you going to just _leave me here?!”_

Bláthnat sent a fond look over their shoulder. They had walked over to the Yavina, their toes submerged, umber skin reflecting the silver light of the moon. Their white teeth gleamed when they smiled. “We gave you the tools, little flower,” they intoned. Their foxglove eyes flashed again. “Do not be afraid; we will see you again, and soon. Dig deeper.”

With that, the glamour on them vanished completely, and Jaskier was met with their true form. Their skin was wine-dark, needlepoint teeth silvery in the moonlight, fingers webbed with purplish skin and talons long and black. Their face remained unchanged — beautifully striking. Their eyes were huge and entirely purple, no whites — when they blinked, Jaskier saw they had two eyelids, like a lizard-lion. They smiled at him briefly and were gone before Jaskier could stop them, leaping into the river.

He scrambled after them, but stopped when he reached the loamy bank. The fae had vanished.

Jaskier’s eyes burned traitorously. He swiped at them, furious. “Damn fae. Damn _undines,_ damn _you,_ Bláthnat. I guess I deserved that,” he rasped. He had left them abruptly last time, after all.

He stared at the river for a long time, kneeling in the pebbles. “I don’t know what to do,” he whispered to the water, helpless. It burbled back at him quietly. Jaskier huffed and sank into the bank, no doubt ruining his trousers. He did not move until the sun threatened to break over the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading!! :) Again, comments and kudos are my love-language, and we are _still_ unbeta'd, so be gentle! My brain is now not just only the Swiss cheese, it is the cheese grater — full of holes and a little stinky.
> 
> **Author Notes:** Greenbow is actually a place in the Witcher universe! It is just not on any maps, or at least none that I've seen while playing/researching! I believe it's in Lyria, but I put it in Rivia, because not even the show/game creators themselves can manage to keep the kingdoms all in one place. Also, Geralt does eventually become a knight canonically in Rivia, but that is not until the Second Northern War. I am playing fast and loose with timeline/geography so it suits my needs because it's what? My sandbox.


	3. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You knew my grandmother.”_
> 
> _Jaskier didn’t so much as twitch. “I did,” he said, twisting a lock of horsehair in his fingers, “She was… a formidable woman.”_
> 
> _“Most people follow that up with condolences.”_
> 
> _“I won’t offer them, Ciri.”_  
>   
>  \---
> 
> Ciri meets Jaskier for the first time. Jaskier, in turn, meets his Child of Spring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, I'm sorry this wasn't updated on Thursday! This chapter _really_ kicked my ass lmao, so I'm sorry if it seems choppier than the others! This chapter does have a POV switch between Ciri and Jaskier. Fun fact, this fic was originally written from Ciri's POV! B) Let me know in the comments if you can tell where some of the original fic has survived in this chapter!
> 
> The POV switch happens at the break! Also, if you find any grammatical errors (or errors... in general) this story is still unbeta'd, so let me know if there's anything fixable! :)
> 
> **Warnings:** _POV switch, mild transphobia, mild ableism, discussion of canon and original character death, and my utter hatred of Calanthe_

> **Greenbow, Rivia and Lyria**
> 
> **October 13th & 14th, 1264**

In the year she’d spent traveling with Geralt, Ciri had never seen him quite this upset. He’d practically flown up the stairs after the brightly-dressed bard without a backward glance, and had come down after said bard looking like someone had kicked him in the teeth. By that time Ciri had sat pointedly at the bar. If Geralt wasn’t going to negotiate their stay in Greenbow, or ask for a hot meal, then Ciri was going to have to do it, and she was going to do it _well._

The barkeep was a stout woman, ruddy-faced and mousy-haired — altogether unremarkable, except for the venomous glare she was giving Geralt. Ciri puffed up; she’d seen what the common folk did to witchers, and prejudice against them rankled her like no other.

“Madame,” Ciri said, voice purposefully bright and clipped. The volume of the other patrons at the bar obligingly lowered; the common folk knew when an important person was speaking, she’d learned.

The barkeep’s glare ticked from Geralt to her, brown eyes surprisingly fierce. “Lass,” the woman returned, her tones broguish, almost like Geralt’s, “are you lookin’ for a room? We have two open, for you and your companion.”

“Father,” Ciri corrected, raising her chin. The volume in the inn became even lower. “We need only one room.”

One of the woman’s eyebrows jumped, but instead of a scowl, like Ciri was expecting, her mouth moved in a slight smile. “Aye, alright, lass,” she said, like she was indulging Ciri, “for you and your father. It’s not my place to ask questions.” She then told Ciri the price of the rooms, and the hot meal she was serving, if they were so inclined.

Ciri’s stomach rumbled, as if on cue. She sent a furtive glance at Geralt; she hadn’t been eating well since they left Riedbrune, hunting a rotfiend. Fleshy, rotten, evil things. The dead that border skirmishes were leaving attracted them, Geralt told her. They smelled like nothing Ciri had ever smelled before. It’d put her off of campfire meals indefinitely.

Ciri struggled not to duck her head in embarrassment as she forked over the coins. The woman just smiled at her kindly. “I’ll have someone send it out for you, pet,” she told Ciri, and then nodded at where Geralt was sitting. “I imagine he’ll be needing you to save him.” Before she disappeared out into the kitchens, though, she winked at her. “But I hear he’s got a soft spot for feisty young things. Show him your teeth, lass.”

With that, the woman slid behind a brown curtain, cutting off Ciri’s sightline. She frowned and spun in her stool, trying to spot Geralt. When she did she almost laughed — Geralt was sitting at a corner table, back to the wall, and was hunched under what looked like a very impressive tongue-lashing, given to him by a truly tiny individual with a long, silver beard. Ciri watched for a moment, sucking on her teeth. The dwarf was a fraction of Geralt’s size, and no visible threat; he was dressed in fine silks, which was uncommon for a dwarf, and one gnarled finger was gesturing at Geralt wildly.

Ciri slid off of the stool and kept her footsteps light as she approached. Lambert had taught her to be almost soundless — he said he learned from a friend, but she’d heard Vesemir ranting to him about being competitive with a cat witcher. Ciri had learned the schools from Vesemir last winter; before she was even to start with a blade, she needed to learn what a witcher _was._ The School of the Cat was almost entirely obliterated, like the rest of the witchers — only, they’d made a name for themselves by becoming assassins for hire, disgracing themselves and making them hardly witchers at all, according to Vesemir.

Still, Lambert’s trick allowed Ciri to approach with nary a sound. In the noise of the tavern, she was a ghost.

“...perfectly good performance, not to mention my dear Ilse’s ear, given that he’ll show up tomorrow morning as heartsick as he showed up last night!” the dwarf was crowing, expression outraged. Geralt was staring at the table as if he wished it would swallow him whole.

Ciri snorted, and then blushed furiously; she would never have been allowed to make that sound at court. It also got both the dwarf and her father to look at her, which was what she had been trying to avoid.

The dwarf stared at her with intense, beady black eyes. His face was a maze of copper wrinkles — his cheekbones were high, nose hooked, gray hair pulled back from his face in an intricate plait, as was custom in Mahakam. Ciri quickly averted her gaze and sat opposite Geralt.

The dwarf made a considering noise. “Curious,” he said, his voice like the tumbling of mountain stones. Ciri noted that Geralt’s gaze narrowed on him, lips starting to peel back in a snarl.

“The bard will be back,” Geralt grunted. “You’ll get your entertainment.”

The dwarf raised a bushy brow. “If you’re so certain,” he said. With a dramatic flair of one of his overly large hands, the dwarf made to sit next to Ciri — Geralt snarled, eyes flashing, but the dwarf was either incredibly brave or an old fool. He waved Geralt’s aggression away like he was batting at a fly. “I will wait with you, then. I have grown quite fond of the bard — Greenbow as a whole loves him.”

The words were said lightly, but Ciri noticed the weight of them. Geralt did, too, by the murderous expression on his face. She was also sure that Geralt had seen the family sitting at the far end of the room. Smiths, the pair of them; she could tell by the stains on their tunics. They had a gaggle of children, some about her age — they were all clear-eyed and watchful, studying them both.

The message was clear: this little hamlet would defend the peacocking minstrel, and toss out any unwelcome patrons if need be.

“He must be incredibly talented,” Ciri found herself saying. Both men turned to her; the dwarf gazed at her expectantly, but Geralt’s expression was forbidding. She raised her chin as she went on, “It’s just, you seem to be personal with him.”

The dwarf’s eyes shone brightly at her. “Aye, lass, I am,” he said. “He came here asking for stories, and I supplied him with them. A wise storyteller always remembers whose ears he’s whispering into.”

Ciri tried not to show too much interest, but she felt how she sat up in her chair. She _loved_ stories. She’d always had an eager ear for them — at court, Eist had made sure that she enjoyed the bards and minstrels that came through. There was one, far back in her childhood memories, that sang about her mother and father, and how they were married. He had come for her name-day every year, until she was ten years old. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember his name… Dandelion, perhaps? Something funny like that.

“Fiona...” Geralt rumbled, a warning. Ciri shot him an exasperated look. He was still frowning, cat-like pupils oval-shaped — uncomfortable. She knew he had his hand on a knife at his belt.

Ciri sighed and sat back, trying not to pout. She knew the unspoken lecture; don’t talk too much, don’t ask questions. They were far enough south that the threat of Nilfgaard was real. Still, it rankled, and Ciri was reminded of something Yennefer told her in anger that last winter, something about how women were expected to be tethered to their fathers and husbands — how men feared their women, because of how much more powerful they were.

Ciri didn’t think Geralt _tethered her,_ per se, but he had an overprotective streak a mountain range wide. So she narrowed her eyes back at him, just barely resisting the urge to stick her tongue out.

The dwarf watched them, amused, until their stew was served. When it was laid out on the table, Geralt began to eat without ceremony. But Ciri looked up to thank the server, and frowned at what she saw.

It wasn’t the barkeep. Instead, it was a… person — Ciri couldn’t identify their gender immediately. They had a soft, oval-shaped face, an upturned nose, and skin the color of milk glass. They had a feminine jaw, and long, thick lashes, but their reddish brown hair was cropped above their ears, and they had no curves to speak of. They wore a thin, baggy sackcloth tunic, and brown leather greaves for riding. They stared back at Ciri out of eyes that were the color of the North Sea, gray and cold.

Ciri blinked at them, perturbed, and stuttered, “Th-Thank you.” The server blinked back at her once, before turning abruptly away, vanishing behind the bar.

Ciri frowned after them. “Strange,” she murmured. She wondered how a person such as that — cold, awkward — could fare in such a warm little village like Greenbow. From what she’s seen, everyone was friendly; the blacksmith and his… partner, and their children, the barkeep and the dwarf, all had fingers in each other’s pies.

The dwarf, noticing her looking, snorted. She frowned at him until the old man shrugged and explained, “That’s Mathilde, the healer’s girl. She doesn’t speak. Bit strange indeed.”

“Oh?” Ciri asked, intrigued, and Geralt snapped, _“Fiona._ Eat.”

Ciri cut a glare at Geralt before spooning up some stew. It was hearty, well-flavored — uncommon for such a small village. She practically inhaled it; she’d forgotten how hungry she’d been.

Geralt watched her, an indulgent quirk at the corner of his mouth.

In the lapse, the dwarf studied Geralt curiously. “You have a Rivian accent,” the dwarf noted after a while, tapping his knuckles on the table. “Are you from here?”

“No,” Geralt grunted. The dwarf hummed, accepting the answer, but Ciri saw Geralt’s eyes flick restlessly around the room; he felt cornered, she realized.

“My father and I are from the Slopes,” she told the dwarf, ignoring Geralt’s low growl. She smiled beatifically at the old man, who twinkled back at her. “We’re wintering in Lyria, this year, with my aunt.”

“Lyria’s winters are easier, after the merge,” the old dwarf said, smiling. “Nilfgaard hasn’t tested our new borders.” Then, in an instant, the dwarf was suddenly grave. “You’ll be wanting to stay away from the Continental road, lass.” His bushy moustache fluffed with his frown. “Ruffians are about.”

Geralt grunted. “Ruffians,” he said, monotone, but the dwarf nodded at him as if he’d made an astute observation.

“Aye, lad. Greenbow has had more than our fair share of survivors, from Cintra itself to the Slopes. Been tales of riders, not wearing no sigils. You’ll be careful when you head on home,” he said knowingly.

Ciri’s spine straightened instinctively. _Guard up, Cirilla,_ Grandmother had told her, eagle-eyed and fierce — it was one of her first memories. _Be the hunter, not the prey._ “Thank you, sir,” she said. The dwarf’s eyes seemed to sparkle at her again.

“No need, lass. Call me Rodrik, while you’re here,” he said, patting her hand with one heavy paw. His hands were rough, dry — old hands, like Vesemir’s.

“We won’t be staying long,” Geralt intoned, while still scraping the dredges of gravy from his bowl. Ciri quickly went to do the same — Geralt wouldn’t stay in the tavern long, after eating.

Rodrik accepted this, too, only dipping his head slightly. “I understand. Family matters,” he said, before rising from his seat; Ciri could hear his ancient bones creak. “Be on the lookout for the dear bard, White Wolf,” Rodrik told Geralt, black eyes impenetrable. “We’re all rather fond of him here.”

Ciri watched, mouth slightly agape, as the dwarf ambled away. He picked up his cane from the table he was sitting at — there was a woman waiting for him with long, dark hair, and a beautiful face. When Rodrik started for the door, the woman spoke to him, too quiet for Ciri to hear. Before they left, the woman turned and stared at her, and Ciri felt the air go out of her lungs. The woman had pale, stormcloud eyes — the same color as the serving girl’s.

Geralt standing tore Ciri’s attention away, chair legs squeaking against the hardwood floor. When she turned to him, his face was a mask. “Upstairs, cub,” he said, low and urgent. Ciri nodded, heart thundering. She patted down her pockets, making sure she had everything, before running up the stairs.

Geralt followed at a much more sedate pace. Ciri unlocked one of the rooms, closest to the window at the end of the hall — a quick escape, if need be. Geralt nodded approvingly at her.

She smiled, even as she tried to tamp down the warm-water-rush feeling of pride. Geralt wasn’t effusive with words; she had Yennefer, and even Lambert and Eskel, for that. But Geralt’s gruff affection, his regard, was one of Ciri’s most prized possessions. He reminded her of Grandmother, in that way.

As Geralt began to unload, Ciri took careful stock of the room. It wasn’t large, by any means — the Bumpy Cup was a rather small inn, with most of the space downstairs dominated by the seating room. Still, it was homey — a bear skin cushioned the plank floor, and the bed was stuffed full of down. Ciri sat on the bed with her small pack, examining her knives and cleaning them, the way she was taught.

Geralt sat next to her, after a while, close enough for them to brush shoulders. Ciri smiled; he wasn’t a talkative man, but he showed her he loved her through touch. A careful hip bump here, a spine-crushing hug there. Ciri sighed contentedly and rested her head on his broad shoulder.

Geralt rumbled in his chest, a sound she’d heard no other witcher make. “You were nervous, downstairs,” he said in his low, grumbly voice, the one that Ciri knew meant _I am concerned for you, but do not know how to ask questions._ She loved him dearly.

“Rodrik said your song name, the name your bard gave you.” She frowned, not sure why that made her so nervous. “People know it, around the Continent. It worries me. I… I don’t like that it puts you in danger,” she confessed in a whisper. “I don’t like that _I_ put you in danger.”

Geralt hummed and put his arm around her, pulling her close. She closed her eyes and inhaled; the smell of leather, dubbin, and sweat overrode her senses. She didn’t know when that combination of rather intense smells made her relax.

“I — am in danger. A lot of the time, cub.” Geralt said. Ciri could hear him grimace as she spoke. “The bard, the one who… gave me that name. It was to protect me.”

Ciri nodded; she knew that, somehow. Geralt was a person that inspired love. He must have taken her silence for doubt, though, because he growled softly before going on, “He… he wanted to make my life. Easier.”

Ciri smiled a little. “He sounds like a good friend,” she whispered.

Geralt nodded jerkily. “He is. Was,” he corrected himself, sounding sadder than he’d ever had. It was so much emotion that Ciri sat up, surprised. His brows were drawn, mouth pursed. In the half-light, she could see that his pupils were round, unhappy. She tsked and threw her arms around him.

He stilled, but did not go tense. She’d beaten that impulse out of him within the first month of their acquaintance. Now, Geralt sighed and relaxed, curling his own arms around her, and she burrowed into him happily. She could ease his pain, for a while.

Still, she was nothing if not curious, so she murmured into his neck, “Did he… die?”

Geralt’s throat clicked as he swallowed. “No, cub.”

He rubbed his cheek against hers, stubble abrading her skin; she let him, even though it burned. Triss had explained to her, last winter, to expect some strange physical expressions; witchers were mutated with certain animals, after all, and the Wolf School was aptly named. She knew it was a way to calm himself. _Scenting,_ Triss had said, was a way for Geralt and the rest of the witchers to mark things, and people, as theirs.

_Carrying his scent will help you smell like family,_ Triss had told her, kindness in her dark brown eyes. She was amused by it all, in her own way, but she had never made fun of the witchers for it — Ciri had liked that about her immediately.

“If he’s not dead,” Ciri started, still quiet, “then why are you so sad?”

It was unnerving her. Geralt was gentle with her, yes, but never _soft,_ and certainly not this emotionally affected. Whoever this bard was, he’d held some sort of power over Geralt. She wasn’t sure she liked it.

The witcher hummed and stayed quiet. She snuggled deeper into his arms, ignoring his grunts, until she was situated with both of them laying down, her head in the crook of his neck and shoulder. Geralt was rumbling, low, but strong enough for her to feel the vibrations. It was soothing. She kept her eyes half-closed, waiting, until Geralt was brave enough to say, “His name is Jaskier. I… took too long. To apologize to him for being… an asshole. And now he won’t speak to me.”

Ciri’s brows jumped. “The bard that ran from you today. His name was Jaskier,” she said, and Geralt nodded slowly. Ciri scowled to herself. “You just now tried to apologize to him, didn’t you?”

“Hmm,” Geralt said. Ciri rolled her eyes.

“Well, perhaps you should do a better apology,” she said pragmatically. Her witcher grunted, clearly unhappy with this logic, but she doubled down on the snuggling to help get her point across. “Jaskier traveled with you for a long time, yes?”

Geralt nodded, so Ciri went on patiently, “Then he knows you, and how you aren’t the best at words. You should _show_ him you’re sorry, make a gesture.”

Geralt hummed, disbelieving. “And how do I… show him?” he asked, and she and the sorceresses have done a wonderful job in getting him to use inflection more often, because even though he was distressed he didn’t go completely monotone. Ciri wiggled happily even as she started wracking her brain for apologetic gestures.

Geralt wasn’t one for little things, was the problem. Ciri knew that most noble courts (and bards generally fell into nobility, anyway, just by the fact that they performed for nobility most often) liked very many small tokens, like flowers or silks or jewelry, especially when wronged. Geralt just… didn’t think about those things. Sure, he did _services —_ he made sure Ciri was well-fed, appropriately clothed, and often gave her practicalities like weapons, but never outright _gifts._

No, Geralt was most suited for grand gestures and heroics — saving someone’s life when it’s in peril, for example, or trusting someone with an important task, like how he trusted Yennefer with her education, or Eskel and Lambert with her practicing—

_Oh,_ Ciri thought, smiling triumphantly.

“Let me meet him, and then we can take him to Kaer Morhen.”

Geralt choked on nothing, but before he could protest, she went on, “No, Geralt, _listen._ I am the most precious thing in your life,” she said, sitting up. Beneath her, Geralt’s shocked face melted into a soft expression, the one that Lambert said made him look stupid. Ciri only thought it looked sweet.

“You are,” Geralt agreed quietly, yellow eyes bright and earnest, and Ciri softened back at him. She took his hand, threading her fingers through his.

“Jaskier must know that,” she said, staring at their palms. His fingers were thick, sword-callused, palms broad enough to dwarf her own. She barely remembered her birth father, but she felt no guilt as she reveled in being close with the one Destiny saw fit to give her. “And Geralt, Kaer Morhen is your _home._ Has he ever been there before?”

Geralt looked away from her, scowling. Ciri sighed. “Of course he hasn’t.” Geralt shot a glance at her, betrayed, and she couldn’t help but laugh at him a little. “Oh, Geralt, if he’s so important to you, why _hasn’t_ he come to Kaer Morhen? You took Lady Yennefer and Triss,” she pointed out, to which Geralt scowled harder.

“That was different,” he said, sounding petulant. “Yen was easy to find, and Triss was injured, and I already had you.” When Ciri raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, Geralt growled. “Jaskier is _stupid._ He’d get hurt.”

_Gods save me from idiot witchers,_ Yennefer’s voice whispered in her mind. Ciri was inclined to agree. “Geralt,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even, “I was thirteen, going up the Killer. Triss and Yennefer were _badly injured.”_

Geralt did his best impression of a bear. He grumbled and hemmed and hawed, wriggling uncomfortably beneath her cheek. It was another five minutes before he spoke again. “Vesemir doesn’t like visitors.”

Ciri wanted to bash her head against a wall. _“Geralt,”_ she said, again, very rapidly approaching shrieking, “by the end of last winter, Vesemir _hugged us._ He calls Triss and Yennefer his _daughters.”_

Geralt was silent, thankfully. Ciri resisted the urge to grind her hands into her eyes. How such a morally upright person like Geralt could hate apologies astounded her. She’d been privy to his apology to Yennefer, and it was a disaster — he’d practically _shoved_ Ciri at the sorceress and blurted, “This is my Child Surprise.”

Yennefer had taken one good, long look at her, unnerving violet eyes wide, before snapping back, “You’re not forgiven yet, but you’re close.”

Ciri had wanted to melt into the floor in humiliation. Later that winter, though, she’d found the humor in it. Lambert had nearly pissed himself laughing when she told him.

The thought of Lambert soothed her exasperation, somewhat. Geralt was rather protective of his brothers, and Kaer Morhen as a whole. Their secrets, their way of life, was almost all but forgotten after the siege. Humans didn’t just _go_ to Kaer Morhen.

Ciri shifted, a little uncomfortable. She suddenly felt like she’d given something away that wasn’t hers, not really. “We… don’t have to do that,” she said hesitantly. “I can show you how to apologize to nobility. I bet he appreciates gifts.”

Geralt snorted. “Jaskier loves his shinies.” It sounded contemplative, though, for Geralt, so Ciri remained quiet. It was only a few moments before he said, haltingly, “If… we take him. You think that will help?”

He sounded so lost. He was so awkward, her witcher father, and he leaned on her just as she leaned on him. Ciri hugged him tight. “Yes, I am certain of it. I bet he’s always wanted to go.” And if he hadn’t before, she will make him now. She was known to be very persuasive.

He grunted, but returned the hug. “Gifts, too,” he said woodenly.

Her eyebrows jumped for the second time that night. “Really?”

“Anything that’ll help.”

Ciri couldn’t stop the grin that stole across her face. She loved having free range. “Excellent. Now, tell me everything he likes,” she demanded, and only revelled a little bit at the long-suffering groan her father emitted.

It took a few hours, but eventually, she and Geralt made a plan. It seemed that Jaskier _was_ fond of shiny things, particularly gold, or semiprecious stones. He avoided silver; he said it didn’t go well with his complexion. He loved silks, and was at the height of fashion, but Geralt didn’t know his measurements. He _loved_ sweet things, particularly pastries and sweet creams, and had an affinity for flowers, particularly the poisonous but beautiful kinds. Ciri thought that he sounded finicky and _delightful._

In the end, Ciri proposed that Geralt commission him something fast, like a simple gold ring. “Dwarves are good goldsmiths,” she told him, smirking. Geralt growled half-heartedly at her.

Neither of them mentioned that in Rivia, gold rings symbolized marriage. Ciri didn’t know if Geralt even _knew._

By the time she’d gotten him to promise to speak with Rodrik, she was exhausted. Riding from Riedbrune had taken a lot out of her. After her second jaw-cracking yawn, Geralt huffed a laugh at her and murmured, “Time for bed, cub.” 

She whined at him, but relented to his fussing. He tucked her firmly under one arm, both of them still dressed in their leathers, Ciri’s head pillowed on his chest. She fell asleep quickly, the smell of a hard day’s ride in her nose and the great billows of his breath in her ears.

❊ ❊ ❊ ❊

Ciri woke with the dawn. She always had; it was one of her grandmother’s least favorite things about her, according to Calanthe’s complaining, but she had never sounded serious, so Ciri didn’t take it to heart. She’d always assumed it had been a trait passed onto her by her mother or father. 

She didn’t remember them. She used to be horrified by that, terribly guilty, but over time she’d grown to accept it. She knew she resembled her mother more than her father in appearance. She knew vaguely that they’d gotten married due to the Law of Surprise, and that her mother had loved sailing. But she knew none of their mannerisms or personalities; she’d only been a baby when they’d died.

As a young child, it left a hollowness inside her, questions that would never be answered. Did she wake with the dawn because her mother had? Did she love animals so much because of her mother, or her father? Did one of them not like beets, and that’s why she couldn’t stand them? Which one of them had loved to watch the sun rise, the bustle of people on the cobblestone streets beneath the castle?

Ciri shook her head to clear it. She was on her way to the stables to check on Kelpie and Roach; both mares tended to be temperamental, and some stablehands couldn’t handle them. Geralt left her to her own devices as he went searching for Rodrik — she’d struggled not to laugh at him as Geralt grumbled about going to a forge so early in the morning, that the smell of curing leather might make him sick.

The hard-packed streets of Greenbow were quiet, but the lanterns were lit. Pumpkins were lined in front of homes, carved-out eyes grinning at her from their porches. Ciri shuddered and tugged her cloak tighter around her shoulders. Jack-o-lanterns had never seemed natural to her; no one in Cintra had ever carved them. It was only until she was traveling that she saw them. They were to protect people from ghouls, she knew that much, but she’d never understood the practice of leaving something so ugly and useless out to deter necrophages.

The sky was gray-blue, only pinkening on the distant horizon — the whole world still looked like it was asleep. She didn’t see any signs of life until she passed a small home on the far side of the village, closest to the stables.

Much like the rest of the buildings in Greenbow, the little house was plastered and well-constructed — it had a smaller porch than the others, but there was a trellis by the front door. There were no vines crawling up the trellis, however — instead, there were braided orange, yellow, red, and brown ribbons, and a boy threading them through.

Ciri couldn’t help but smile as she watched. The boy was tall, made even taller by leaning on a rickety looking ladder, all legs and arms. He had ribbon between his teeth and over his shoulders; there was even some tied into his springy black hair. When he caught sight of Ciri, his eyes widened — Ciri noted that they were strikingly pale against his dark complexion.

“Good morning,” she called out. The boy spat out his ribbons and slid down the ladder in one movement — he was nimble, Ciri thought, considering; he moved like he was well in-tune with his body. She recognized the signs from training with witchers.

The boy smiled at her tentatively when he landed on the ground. Ciri noted that his trousers were too short, and his knobby ankles poked out above his shoes. “Good morning, miss,” he said brightly. He had a charming Skelliger accent. “Are you looking to get into the stables?”

“Yes. Are you one of the stablehands?” she asked, and the boy nodded eagerly. He had to be a couple years younger than her, going by the youth on his face, but he towered over her as he approached.

“I can let you in, if you’d like,” he offered, already striding for the stable doors. He was incredibly cheerful, she thought as she followed him, trying not to laugh at the bounce in his step. It was obvious the boy was in a painfully happy mood. She wondered what Geralt would make of him.

The stable was immaculate. The doors swung soundlessly on their hinges, and the cobblestone floors of the stable were pristine — even Cintra’s stables weren’t that clean. Ciri took a deep, calming breath; hay and horse filled her lungs.

The boy was having a similar moment, it seemed, because he smiled knowingly at her, gray eyes twinkling. Ciri stared for a moment, uncertain. The server at the tavern had those eyes, and so did the woman Rodrik was with. They were all the more striking on him.

“I like the smell, too,” he confided, heedless of her unease. His expression was loose and easy, the lean lines of his face softening with happiness. He had the server’s oval face, but his jaw was square and his cheekbones more pronounced. He might be handsome when he’s older, Ciri thought, blushing slightly.

The boy was absolutely oblivious to her, instead chattering on about the horses. “They just seem to know things, you know? Sweethearts, the lot of them,” he was saying, going around and checking the stalls. Only three were occupied; Ciri was delighted to see Kelpie’s massive black head emerge, the mare’s bright, intelligent eyes alighting on her with a whicker. Roach, stabled next to her, bobbed her head in greeting.

Ciri had stopped in front of Kelpie’s stall when she heard a shrill, high-pitched whinny. She startled in its direction, and then gaped.

“Oh, you’re _beautiful,”_ she gasped, and the horse snorted. It was small, smaller than Roach and certainly smaller than Kelpie, but utterly gorgeous for it — its coat was a dappled gray, silvery in the early light, and its ears curved toward its forelock at the tips. Even its eyes were angled gently, and a bright, odd shade of blue.

The boy laughed. She sent him a sharp look, and he raised his palms sheepishly, saying, “Aye, she is, miss, don’t mistake me! She’s a right brat, though.” Despite this, he walked right up to the mare, patting her neck companionably. The horse only flicked an ear at him, eyes still stuck on Ciri.

Behind her, Kelpie nudged her shoulder. She patted her horse’s nose, and didn’t mind when she snorted on her. “She seems to like you just fine,” Ciri pointed out.

The boy shrugged, scratching under the horse’s lower lip. “We gots ourselves an accord,” he drawled as the mare whuffed at the ribbons still in his hair. His grin was blinding. “She’s the bard’s mount, so I guess she _has_ to be pretty. I think she’s elvish bred.”

“She has to be,” Ciri said, admiringly. Her grandmother and Eist preferred larger, stronger breeds, so they could be trained as destriers and war horses, but Ciri had always loved the swiftness of the elvish breed. Delicate, and hard to train, but stunningly intelligent for it. She’d begged her grandmother for a mount from Lettenhove, the last place on the Continent to reliably breed them, but she’d been told no.

_“It’s too much of an expense on something that is a glorified circus pony, Cirilla,”_ she’d sniffed. Ciri remembered Calanthe’s deep brown eyes shining with disdain, but not for her. Even after Filavandrel’s escape to Dol Blathanna, the Queen of Cintra hated elves and their ilk above all else.

How a traveling bard could afford such a steed was beyond Ciri. Yet another thing about Jaskier that piqued her interest. She shifted so she faced the boy fully, an idea forming in her mind.

“Ribbon Boy,” she started, surprising even herself at the boldness of her voice. The stablehand blinked at her, confused, as she went on, “Do you know the bard well?”

Ribbon Boy frowned for a moment. “Not well, miss,” he said, though his voice had acquired a kind of hesitance. His gray eyes shifted about her face, uneasy. “Me mam, she’s the healer here. She had me deliver a cure for the brown bottle flu to him yesterday afternoon.”

_Birds of a feather then,_ Ciri thought wryly. She’d had to bother plenty of healers this summer for Geralt, who had a suspiciously sophisticated palate for wine, but apparently no tolerance for it.

“I was just wondering. I’ve always been a fan of his music; I’d give anything to tell him how much it means to me,” Ciri said, allowing her chin to dip a bit, looking at him through her lashes. She was hardly shy, anymore — training with Yennefer beat that out of her quite quickly — but she knew that sometimes, subtlety worked better than brute force.

Predictably, Ribbon Boy nodded a touch too eagerly. “I’m certain he’ll be back soon,” he told her. “Master Jaskier checks on her often, or so my sister says. Tells her every morning she’s a gift,” he said, gesturing to the mare. The horse lipped at his ribbons affectionately.

The smile that bloomed on Ciri’s face was much more genuine this time. “She seems to be, doesn’t she. Does she have an affinity for ribbons as well?” she asked, and watched with thinly concealed delight as Ribbon Boy’s cheeks flushed.

The youth pulled bits of red and orange out of his hair, ruddy-faced. Jaskier’s mare immediately followed the bright fabric, head nodding excitedly. Ribbon Boy sighed, dejected. Surprising herself, Ciri laughed, quickly hiding it behind her hand.

“Now this is a new sight,” called a cheerful voice. Immediately, the mare’s head snapped up, ears pricked forward. Ciri turned to see Jaskier approaching, a familiar smile on his face. He wore the same clothes as the night before — the silvery greens looked damp in the early morning. Dark circles hung low underneath his blue eyes, and stubble darkened his jaw. He looked tired.

Still, his smile was near-blinding, and his expression was soft with affection when he told Ribbon Boy, “I don’t usually see anyone in here this early. Did your mother hire you out to the stable now, too, Viktor? Or did you come just to bother Luíseach?”

Ribbon Boy blushed again, ducking his head sheepishly. “Oh, I, uh—”

“He was just showing me to my horse, Master Jaskier,” Ciri said, rescuing Ribbon Boy — Viktor — from his own ineptitude. The boy flashed a grateful smile at her, but it was whole-heartedly ignored in favor of the look of complete shock that graced the bard’s face.

Jaskier stared at her for a moment, eyes wide, before they darted behind her, and then all around the stable. _Looking for danger?_ Ciri thought, frowning, but the bard’s shoulders relaxed when he didn’t find what he was looking for.

“What a pleasant surprise this is,” Jaskier said, a nervous grin on his lips. “I wasn’t expecting company! If I’d known I’d be in your presence, Sunflower, I’d have changed my doublet.” 

The moniker struck something in her. A melody whispered in her ears, a soaring tenor in a sun-filled banquet hall. _Sunflowers still grow at night, waiting for the moment that the sun fills my eyes…_

_“Dandelion?”_ Ciri gasped.

Before her, Jaskier cringed a little, though his smile never wavered. “One in the same! Now, before you go, dear Viktor,” he said to the confused boy, gracing him with a gentle expression. “I’m going to need you to tell your brilliant mother that I need to speak with her, if she’s amenable. Unfortunately, my time in Greenbow has been cut short, but I would love nothing more than to tell both her and the fair Ser Rodrik goodbye.”

Viktor’s furrowed brow turned into a frown. “The Old Man won’t like you leaving so soon. He likes your tunes, Master Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s smile became pained. Ciri saw that there was genuine remorse in his eyes. “I know, but he can write to me, I’m sure. I’ll send him countless poems to ease his mind.”

Viktor still looked unsure, but he nodded at the bard anyway. He sent a concerned look at Ciri, but didn’t linger, instead stepping around Jaskier and toward the barn’s entrance. “I’ll tell Mam. Try not to go before she’s ready,” he instructed Jaskier, and then strode away, long legs eating up the distance.

“Bossy thing, isn’t he?” Jaskier mused, affectionate.

“How are you all one person?” she demanded thoughtlessly. Maybe it should have crossed her mind that a bard of such talent could both be Master Dandelion and Jaskier, but it simply hadn’t. There were plenty of good bards around the Continent. Surely her Dandelion and Geralt’s Jaskier couldn’t be one in the same?

Jaskier’s expression tightened. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Sunflower.”

“Ciri, please.” Jaskier blinked at her, startled, and Ciri refused to duck her head or hide from his gaze. “Fiona while other people are around, but Ciri is alright between us.”

To his credit, he only hesitated a moment. “Ciri,” he corrected solemnly. “I don’t know what you’re asking me.”

There was a dejected note to his voice, something desperate. He looked pitiful, his normally coiffed hair bedraggled and obvious dirt stains on his trousers. The Dandelion Ciri remembered from court would never have let anyone see him in such a state. They hadn’t ever been friendly — Grandmother would never have allowed Ciri to debase her station by chatting with a bard — but Eist had told her a little about him, growing up. Apparently, as a babe, his songs were the only ones she could stand.

“No questions,” Ciri found herself saying, and watched as Jaskier’s shoulders relaxed slightly. For some reason, the thought of him feeling hunted was sad.

“Your generosity knows no bounds, Ciri,” the bard told her, absently stroking his horse’s neck. The mare leaned trustingly into the touch. Seemingly distracted, Jaskier crooned to her, resting his forehead in her mane.

Ciri regarded him thoughtfully. “You knew my grandmother.”

Jaskier didn’t so much as twitch. “I did,” he said, twisting a lock of horsehair in his fingers, “She was… a formidable woman.”

Ciri nodded, but there were no other words. She frowned. Geralt told her that Jaskier always chattered, his voice filled up the room — but this man was quiet, subdued. He barely met her eyes.

“Most people follow that up with condolences.” 

Jaskier finally looked back to her, and she was surprised at the steel they suddenly held.

“I won’t offer them, Ciri,” he told her, voice firm. “I am sorry you lost your grandmother, and Eist. I am _so_ sorry you were alone, when you shouldn’t have been. No one should have to suffer like that; especially not a child. But I am not sorry that the Queen of Cintra is dead.” His gaze was steady, icy; Ciri went cold just looking into them. “You won’t find friends in Greenbow, or anywhere in this part of the north, expecting condolences. Please do not ask people for them.”

The words hit her like a sledgehammer. She staggered a little under the weight of them; she leaned heavily on Kelpie’s stall. Jaskier’s gaze left her then, and he brushed through his horse’s mane, mouth pursed.

Ciri kept silent as she brushed through Kelpie’s. Then, a little too forcefully, she said, “I don’t ask for them. People give them to me whether I want them or not, when they know who I am.” Behind her, she heard him stop, and a horse whicker softly. She didn’t turn around.

“You’re allowed to grieve, just as everyone else is,” he said gently. Ciri’s eyes suddenly burned with tears.

They remained in silence for a while. She was hardly good with silence. On the road to finding Geralt, it had been a necessity — don’t be heard, don’t get caught. But before that, in court, she’d been a chatterer. Eist’s family from Clan an Craite on Ard Skellig had called her Swallow, after the talkative little bird. She’d held onto that well into her stay at Kaer Morhen, one of the quietest places on the Continent. Between her and Lambert, however, the peace had been thoroughly disturbed.

So it only was a few minutes before Ciri tried talking to Jaskier again. Swallowing past her emotion, she paused in grooming Kelpie long enough to say, “Geralt is looking for you.”

There was a clatter and a smattering of curses. Ciri couldn’t contain her smirk.

Jaskier’s voice was strained as he asked, “Oh? And what would the great, generous, _kind_ White Wolf want with me?”

Ciri’s mouth dropped open in a silent _oh._ There was pain in that voice, and banked anger. Whatever power Jaskier has over Geralt, it was reciprocated — and whatever Geralt did to Jaskier was bad enough that Jaskier was attempting to sever those ties.

She spun around to face him, ignoring his stricken expression. “You’re leaving because of him.” It wasn’t a question, but the bard opened his mouth to answer anyway. She cut him off quickly, “Don’t — You _can’t._ He wants to apologize to you, for whatever he did. He means it.”

“I’m sure he does,” Jaskier said, sounding tired. Ciri tried not to despair at how exhausted the bard looked. “But he meant what he said _then,_ too. I don’t think this can be fixed, Ciri.”

“No.” She shook her head, uncaring of her unruly hair. “No, it has to be! It can! You can’t give up on him, Jaskier.”

The bard closed his eyes, pained. “I didn’t give up on him for _seventeen years,”_ he whispered. “If I’m honest with you, Ciri, it’s more like eighteen. I waited for him for a year after what happened.” When he opened his eyes again, they were red-rimmed. “I can’t keep doing this. I need to make my own path, instead of following his.”

Ciri opened her mouth, about to respond, _A path walked alone is so much harder to clear, please talk to him, please,_ but was interrupted by the sound of the stable doors swinging open. She turned to see Viktor trotting back inside, a smile on his face, and three others following behind him. The healer she recognized immediately — pale skin and dark hair and stern features, reminiscent of her grandmother. She had a child on her hip, the same complexion as Viktor, with a puff of black hair on his head. His eyes were dark brown, and gleaming with good humor.

Behind them all was a slim figure in plain cloth trousers. This person she recognized, too; the server, with her stormcloud eyes and a sad, solemn face, lingering by the doors. Their footsteps were so quiet Ciri couldn’t even hear them — it looked like Jaskier didn’t, either, because he was too preoccupied cooing over the child.

“Look at _him,”_ Jaskier enthused, reaching out for the toddler. The babe couldn’t have been more than four, with ruddy cheeks and chubby little hands that reached out.

The healer smiled at them, dutifully propping her child on her hip so that he could wrap his little fingers around Jaskier’s. “Klaus loves people,” she said, her voice quietly proud. “He’s been ill for a few days, otherwise I would’ve had him come with me to the inn last night. He loves music.”

“I can tell,” Jaskier said, wrinkling his nose at the babe. Klaus giggled on cue as Jaskier went on, “I can sense the music in him! You’ll be a bard when you get older, won’t you?”

Like this, Ciri could hardly tell that Jaskier was exhausted. His blue eyes were lit up brightly, a covetous expression on his face — she’d seen adults get that expression when faced with children. According to Triss, it was about securing a legacy.

Ciri had asked the sorceress about the emphasis on Geralt having a Child Surprise at Kaer Morhen, when the wolves had alternatively circled around her warily and smothered her with affection. Triss had explained that it was a biological imperative for some, and witchers had that in spades.

Jaskier, it seemed, also had it. The man was practically glowing. Ciri thought about slipping away, finding Geralt and forcing them to talk to each other while Jaskier was distracted.

“Maybe you’ll get to teach him one day, _skald,”_ the healer told him, amused, before her cold gray eyes alighted on Ciri. All softness dissipated from her face. She quickly set her toddler down and murmured something to him; Klaus spared Jaskier a sad look before scampering back toward the doors.

“You’re the witcher’s girl,” the healer said with thinly veiled disdain. Ciri felt her lips pull back in a snarl.

“Fiona is the daughter of an old friend, Vigga,” Jaskier’s voice cut in sharply, though his tone was cheerful. The bard’s eyes flashed between Ciri and Vigga briefly. “It’s a miracle I ran into her here.”

The healer’s stare softened, but only just. She sent a reproachful look at Jaskier. “I see. All sorts of _miracles_ are happening in Greenbow, now.” The _after you came along_ was voiceless, but it rang out in the stables nonetheless.

To his credit, Jaskier just grinned. “I have no idea what you mean, my lady,” he said. Vigga rolled her eyes at him.

“Fiona was asking about Luíseach,” Viktor said, startling them all. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, looking shifty and nervous.

While his mother frowned at him, Jaskier just nodded seriously. “Ah, my finest and most precious friend,” he said, his voice thick with affection. Ciri watched as the mare snorted and tossed her head.

“She is beautiful,” Ciri murmured. “I haven’t ever seen an elvish bred horse in person before. Only drawings.”

She could feel at least three sets of eyes staring at her, but the only one she cared about was Jaskier, and how his expression tightened slightly. His voice was still bright when he said, “Well, they’re incredibly rare! I just happen to know the family that breeds them still.”

“So she _is_ elvish,” Viktor breathed. His gray eyes were round with wonder. At the stable doors, Ciri saw out of her periphery that the server girl — Mathilde, Ciri remembered — had crept closer, but still not out in the open.

Oblivious, Jaskier bobbed his head excitedly. “Oh yes, she’s purebred! You can tell the difference in half-breeds by the shape of their ears and eyes, see how Luíseach’s are slanted, and the shape of their teeth—”

_“Enough!”_

* * *

Vigga’s voice rang out, startling the horses. Luíseach’s nostrils flared as she retreated into her stall, Roach and Ciri’s own horse following her lead.

Jaskier nearly started himself. The healer was blazing, all the color drained from her face. She glared at Jaskier, breathing unsteadily, her hands clenched into white fists at her side. Instead of anger in her eyes, however, there was deep, bone-chilling fear.

“My lady…” Jaskier murmured, soothingly. “Are you well?”

In his periphery, he saw Viktor attempting to make himself look smaller than he was. Ciri, on the other hand, was puffed up, face bright red.

“Talk of elves this close to the border is dangerous,” Vigga snapped at him, drawing his attention away from the children. Jaskier was shocked to note that there were tears in her eyes. “You should know better, Master Jaskier.”

“The border? Which border?” came Ciri’s voice, sharp and reprimanding. The princess had drawn herself up taller, a righteous Calanthe in miniature. “Elves haven’t been a problem in these parts for nearly a century—”

_“Quiet,_ girl, or I’ll spell your lips shut!” Vigga snarled. Viktor made a small sound, an aborted movement, as his mother cut him a quelling glare.

Ciri raised her chin defiantly, and Jaskier internally groaned. Of _course_ she would be a hellish combination of Calanthe’s unbridled hubris and Geralt’s idiotic stubbornness. Why had he not thought of that sooner?

“Fiona, go fetch your father for me,” Jaskier said, keeping his voice carefully even. The princess made a face at him, one that clearly read _Are you serious?_ Jaskier set his jaw at her and nodded toward the door. “Go on then. Tell him to meet me out front, I won’t be but a few minutes with Vigga.”

The woman in question was nearly shaking in her bones. Her eyes were darting frantically to Jaskier, Ciri, and then into her periphery — Jaskier assumed it was where she’d sent Klaus. Viktor remained utterly still.

Ciri, proving herself to be smarter than all of her parental influences, only sent him a single dark glare before turning toward the door. Her boot heels clicking against the cobblestone was the only sound in the stable until they faded away, the barn doors closing near-soundlessly behind her.

With Ciri gone, Vigga started to relax. Her shoulders loosened, though her expression remained tight. “Bard,” she started, her voice quiet and perhaps a little apologetic, but Jaskier bared his teeth at her.

“What on Melitele’s green earth was that?” he snapped, heart suddenly thundering. He’d gone cold when Vigga first shouted. He _had_ to protect Ciri, if not out of any affiliation with a certain witcher but because of his love for Pavetta. It overrode his affection for the healer, no matter the pull he felt.

Vigga had the good grace to look chagrined. “You don’t know who she is, Jaskier,” she hissed, eyes darting behind her. Jaskier frowned and tried to look, but she came closer, blocking his view. Her eyes were wild. “I’ve seen her before, or her likeness. That’s Pavetta of Cintra’s daughter.”

Shock lanced through him, struck him silent. He gaped at the healer as she went on desperately, “Princess Pavetta came through Kagen, before her debut, before her marriage. That girl is her _mirror image.”_

“That’s impossible,” Jaskier argued weakly, “Everyone knows the royal family died in the siege of Cintra—”

Vigga scoffed at him, her hands finding his upper arms and gripping them hard. “Don’t be a fool, Jaskier! Queen Calanthe would never have allowed her only heir to be killed, no matter how stupid she was.” The healer’s voice turned pleading, her voice going soft, “Please be _careful._ I don’t know why, but I can’t bear the idea of you being hurt.”

Jaskier faltered. Vigga seemed genuinely despairing and at a loss. Her confusion made the thing in Jaskier’s chest want to reach out, to soothe, and he struggled against the urge to reassure her.

“Mam,” Viktor called shakily. Both he and Vigga turned to him in tandem, to see the lanky boy vibrating in his boots, tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Mam, I just wanted to know if… if we were right about Luíseach, I didn’t mean to—” he sobbed. Vigga immediately abandoned Jaskier and rushed him, murmuring quiet platitudes.

Jaskier opened his mouth, to ask why the attitude about elves if Rodrik was their favorite person, or perhaps why they bothered to be in Greenbow at all, or what made Vigga think that she could be proprietary toward him, or perhaps countless other things, when someone lingering at the door caught his eye.

They were slim but short, a sapling. They wore plainclothes, like Vigga and Viktor, but the trousers were a tad too long, pooling around their ankles. Their hair was red-gold, brassy, and curled into their face. Klaus was propped up on their hip, the boy hiding his face quietly in their neck.

When they looked back at him, Jaskier noticed that their eyes were the color of steel flashing in sunlight.

Jaskier clutched at his middle, feeling as if he’d been punched in the stomach. He wheezed, eyes going wide, as _something_ in his chest clawed to the surface. The smell of smoke clouded in his lungs, his eyes burned with the imaginary sting of it — he heard the whistle from the ice-cold waters of the North Sea in his ears, and voices saying, _“Ask not if it is the mother. Instead, think of the child.”_

_“My daughter. I was hoping working for Ilse would help her get more comfortable here.”_

“ _You’re a pathetic little man, aren’t you?”_

“Hero?” he gasped, near-breathless. Jaskier watched as their eyes grew round, their mouth parting in shock.

There was an answering gasp nearby, but he almost didn’t hear it when a soft, boy’s voice asked, “What did he say?”

Hero was staring at him. They seemed to be frozen solid, not even blinking. In their arms, Klaus squirmed, making tiny, unhappy noises. Only then did they move, setting the toddler down so he could thunder back to his mother on heavy feet.

Jaskier took one step, and then another. He felt tugged forward, like a string had tied itself to his heart and Hero had the other end. In that moment he didn’t care about the dream. He didn’t see blood and viscera, or an axe in a black-gloved hand. He didn’t hear the sound of a whole village screaming. He just saw them, his Child, looking small and uncertain, their jaw moving soundlessly.

The embrace seemed to startle them both. Hero was so slight, he practically folded them into his chest, their own arms tightening around his middle. They were shorter than Ciri, their head fitting neatly under his chin, soft hair tickling his skin.

Hero shook silently. Jaskier wasn’t much better, the tears that had formed in his eyes at the sight of them falling. He’d cried in Greenbow more times than he’d cried in the past year.

Hero’s fingers had dug into his doublet, no doubt causing wrinkles, and they clawed him close for a long moment. Jaskier inhaled their scent — honey-roses, the ones that grew on the moors of Spikeroog.

“Skald…” Vigga’s voice came, sounding shocked. Jaskier looked over from where he held his trembling Child, and saw her eyes were wide. One of her hands was clenched around something behind her skirts. Beside her, Viktor looked awestruck.

Quite suddenly he realized he was embracing a young person — a young woman, if he remembered correctly, who went by the name Mathilde. Vigga’s _daughter._

He sprung back from Hero as if he’d been burned. “Shit! Shit, I’m so sorry, madam, I—” he rambled at Vigga, hoping his eyes weren’t too-blue, though the teeth in his mouth felt sharper than normal. He grinned, false-bright. “I seem to have gotten myself carried away, I—”

A strong, insistent tug on his shirtsleeve silenced him. Hero — Mathilde — had stepped around him, their spine straight as they crossed the narrow hallway to their mother. They — she? — were carrying a slim leather journal, open already to one page. Jaskier didn’t see what was written on it, but they brandished it at Vigga, a defiant gleam in their eyes.

Vigga snatched the book and promptly stared. The poor woman’s face was devoid of color again, the second time in an hour, and looked dangerously close to passing out. Her breath hitched, once, and then she went still. Her cold gray eyes met his with a surprising softness.

“You’re Dandelion, then,” she murmured, almost absently. The book went limp in her grasp. “I should have known.”

Awareness prickled at the back of his head. He felt the stirrings of a breeze around his ears, the ghost of a zither plucked in a gentle arrangement. Next to him, Mathilde perked up, gazing at him in wonder.

“Yes,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, “I am. I am Dandelion, and I’m Jaskier. I didn’t mean to deceive you, my lady, I honestly didn’t think I was here for…” he trailed off, uncertain, but the healer sniffed and waved a hand. She handed the book back to Mathilde, who watched their mother carefully.

“I _knew_ it,” Viktor breathed. “I _knew_ it! I knew it, I _told_ you, Mat!” he cried, practically bouncing on his feet. He leapt towards Mathilde and grabbed their hands. “As soon as I heard Fiona say Dandelion, I thought it _must_ be him!”

Jaskier blinked in surprise. This was… not what he expected. “You know who I am?” he asked, confused, but Viktor was too busy chattering to an increasingly-overwhelmed looking Mathilde.

Vigga leaned against an empty stall, rubbing her forehead tiredly. Klaus, the little sweetheart, had situated himself firmly between her knees, and was content with rubbing her skirt through his fingertips.

“I’ve known Mathilde was promised to the fae since she was three,” the healer explained in a voice much too old for her age. “Her father and I… we helped an undine in Sodden. They asked what we would like as payment, and…” Vigga sighed, closing her eyes briefly. “He invoked the Law of Surprise.”

When Vigga’s eyes opened, her expression was steely as she went on, “Gwilym didn’t know what that entails with faeries. _I_ didn’t know, but they accepted our demand. The next night, they informed us that they had just returned from Posada, and our Surprise would be given to our youngest child.”

Water rushed in Jaskier’s ears. The haunting melody of Bláthnat’s lap harp twined itself around his ribcage, purple ribbons around his heart. “Posada?” he croaked.

“Posada, yes,” Vigga told him, a wry smile on her face even as she scoffed, “That cesspit.”

“Did the fae give you a name? Something you could call them?” Jaskier demanded, urgently. When Vigga blinked at him, he said, “Please, this is important.”

“They went by Little Flower.”

_Bláthnat._ Jaskier’s mind whirled. The fae _had_ told him he’d have a Child just the same as they did, but he would never have guessed that Bláthnat would have _already set him up with one._

“It can’t have been their real name,” Vigga said quietly, something calculating in her eyes. “They seemed all-too willing to give it up, and take ours in return. Neither one of us gave ours to them.”

“Smart of you,” Jaskier said absently, simply staring at Mathilde. This short, willowy creature, with red-gold hair and their mother’s stormy eyes, _this_ was his Child. They were watching him in return, and now that the direst part of the pull had passed, Jaskier could see that they were just as calculating as Vigga. The only difference was that Jaskier knew in his heart of hearts that they would never do anything to hurt him.

He hadn’t felt such trust, such devotion, since his mother died.

“Will we have to worry about our names with you, Master Jaskier?” Viktor asked, curious instead of suspicious. Jaskier felt himself smile.

“No, Viktor. One of the blessings that comes with being chosen by fae is that you’ve been given immunity by their court.” This was met with triplet looks of confusion, so Jaskier settled in for a lecture.

“The fae that you inherited me from is the same one who claimed me as their own Child of — Surprise, many years ago,” he told them, watching as both Vigga and Mathilde nodded, Viktor’s mouth dropping in a silent “oh.” Klaus, of course, paid them no attention, and instead mumbled in broken Common at Luíseach, who had poked her head out of her stall once more.

“So, generationally speaking, we’re under Little Flower’s protection.” Vigga’s tone was straight and to the point.

Jaskier nodded. “In a manner of speaking, yes. I am their Child, and Mathilde is mine. The court that my parent belongs to is beholden to the Law of Spring, which grants us a place in the Faerie.” At all of their nods, Jaskier went on, “Children of Spring aren’t rare, but claiming them is. We generally don’t take our Children, but now that I’ve found mine, it would be against my nature to not keep them in my life.”

The words fell from his mouth like stones, plunging through the air and changing the atmosphere. It was as if Vigga and Viktor hadn’t thought of this, and both had worrying reactions — Viktor looked like he was about to cry, and Vigga looked furious.

Before she could speak, however, Mathilde jumped in again with their journal. They flipped to the most recent page and pointed at it, shoving it at their mother. They seemed to be quite insistent that Vigga read it. The healer sighed at them but did so, her expression pinched even as she muttered, “Far be it from me, to not listen to my child.”

It was then that it clicked. “You’re mute!” he blurted, aghast.

Mathilde blinked at him, and then nodded, mouth pressed in a firm line. Their hands were twisted in front of them, turning their knuckles white. They seemed resigned, head bowed, as if they were waiting for him to denounce them. Jaskier wanted to bundle them up immediately.

“Quite clever of Bl—my parent, to have a minstrel and a mute as a pair. You’ll never have to worry about silence again,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. He smiled at them, keeping it soft, and was rewarded with a shy smile of Mathilde’s own.

He saw it now, he thought. He saw what drew Bláthnat to him, what made them crave his touch, his presence, because he saw it reflected back at him in Mathilde’s eyes.

“Mathilde,” Vigga snapped. It took a second too long for her daughter to face her; Jaskier saw irritation flare briefly before it was snuffed.

Vigga stood with the journal wrung in her hands, eyes full of tears, even as her cheeks were again flushed in anger. Emotions warred across her face. If Jaskier weren’t so invested in his Child, he would have felt sorry for her. “You cannot tell me you’re serious,” she said to her daughter, her voice shaking. 

Mathilde inclined their head. They didn’t resemble Vigga much, physically — the same upturned nose, similar skin tone, but otherwise their face was slimmer, lips fuller, eyes bigger. Mathilde looked unnerving, he could see it despite his affection. But when they faced their mother, chin raised and expression firm, Jaskier would never have questioned the resemblance.

Jaskier and Viktor were both silent, watching with bated breath as Mathilde stared Vigga down. It felt like hours, an eternity of conversation passed between mother and daughter, until a single tear fell from Vigga’s eyes. She snarled and scooped Klaus to her chest almost violently. The boy whined, a confused, “Mama?” escaping him. Vigga didn’t stop to shush him, and instead brushed past them all — but not without dropping Mathilde’s journal to the ground in a rush.

Viktor blanched, staring wide-eyed at Mathilde, before taking off after his mother — leaving Jaskier and his Child of Spring, alone.


	4. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Follow you?” Geralt barked. When Jaskier looked over at him, his expression was murderous. “You’re leaving?”_
> 
> Jaskier and Geralt have the Talk, part the first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody!!!! This chapter is much shorter than usual, but I liked how it ended and decided to keep the length rather than try and ramble on. AND you finally get our himbo in his finest glory!! He's trying!!!
> 
> Also, the Sunflower song that Jaskier sang Ciri growing up (mentioned last chapter) is most _definitely_ a Rex Orange County lyric that I tweaked. Shh.... don't think about it too hard....
> 
>  **Warnings:** _mild transphobia, frank discussion of a character's relationship with gender, implied/referenced fantasy racism and ethnic cleansing, bad flirting_

> Greenbow, Rivia and Lyria
> 
> October 15th, 1264

Jaskier was still staring at the entrance to the stables when he heard movement beside him. He turned, and his heart threatened to break at the sight of his Child dusting off their journal, their face a mask of pain.

His _Child._ Gods, he didn’t think he’d ever get used to that.

Sensing their distress, he stepped forward, his fingertips ghosting theirs over the cover of their book. They didn’t startle; instead, they blinked up at him, their impossibly big eyes wide. Jaskier couldn’t help the small, sad smile on his face.

“What did you tell her?” he asked, quietly. “Am I allowed to know?”

Mathilde hesitated, but eventually they cracked the spine. On the most recent page, there were complete sentences in clear handwriting, gently sloping and spiky, but certainly not chicken scratch. Jaskier leaned closer to read it.

The heading read: _The fifteenth of October, sixth of Queen Meve, Rivia and Lyria._ What followed appeared to be a conversation with Viktor.

> _Who’s Fiona?_
> 
> _The witcher’s girl? I saw her last night. She gawked at me._

Jaskier frowned. If he ever got to talk to Ciri again, he’d have to scold her about staring. Surely her grandmother’s influence didn’t extend to finding people who are different than the average able-bodied person abominable.

There was a harsh scribble, blocking something out, and then a single word: _Where?_

Jaskier couldn’t help but grin at the way the lead had pushed harshly into the paper. It soothed something in him, that his Child of Spring was excited to meet him.

There was a short break, and then more of Mathilde’s sharp, precise handwriting. _He’s Dandelion._

> _If I’m his, he’s mine. I want to go with him. It’ll be safer for you._

Jaskier’s heart lurched. His Child felt _safe_ with him, this creature of smoke and fire and steel. He was no fool — he knew he’d gleefully be a step behind this young, ferocious person, even as they burned entire cities to the ground. It frightened him, but it was still not enough to dampen the joy he felt while looking at them, being in their presence.

The truth was, death didn’t scare him anymore. Walking behind another person for almost twenty years, a man who was more like a beast during some hunts, someone who wielded steel and fire and magic, eradicated that fear. Following Geralt had prepared him for his Child, it seemed. He felt nothing but peace.

It was only _after_ this realization that he wondered, _How is Greenbow not safe enough for them?_

Jaskier snuck a look at Mathilde. He took a moment to study them — protruding ears, slightly misshapen under titian hair, copper in the morning light; their skin fair and unblemished. He didn’t feel any push of chaos from them over the pull of their bond. The only thing that nagged in the back of his mind was Vigga’s outburst over Luíseach, her wide and fearful eyes as she hissed, _“That’s Pavetta of Cintra’s daughter.”_

Mathilde was watching him, rolling their bottom lip between their teeth, eyes huge and luminous. Anxiety rolled off of them in waves.

Jaskier made a soft trilling sound — reminiscent of Bláthnat. “Mathilde,” he started, concerned, and they wrinkled their nose at him, quite adorably.

They took the journal back from him and produced a pencil from behind their ear. They scribbled something on the page, and then handed it back to him.

 _MAT,_ the book said.

“Mat,” he read, and something _zinged_ up his spine. Jaskier gasped at the feeling, the immediate urge to say it again. “Mat. Mat,” he repeated, tasting the name; smoke and metal and salt, the oddest undercurrent of roses.

Mathilde — Mat stared at him, grinning. They nodded at him excitedly, once again taking the journal back and scribbling, presenting the sentence, _That’s my name. Only my mother calls me Mathilde anymore._

Jaskier hummed, considering. “Habits are hard to break for parents. I should know, I’ve had so many names it’s difficult to count,” he said, and Mat simply _beamed_ at him. Jaskier felt his heart soar. “How do you refer to yourself? Just by your name?” he asked, curious.

Mat hesitated again at this, before writing out, _I don’t feel like a girl, if that’s what you’re asking._ Their hand was shaky, slow. Jaskier nodded.

“That’s perfectly acceptable — you don’t have to be a girl, or even my daughter. You can just be my Child.”

Mat’s pencil scratched against the paper. _I don’t mind being a daughter, or a sister. I’m just not a girl._

Jaskier nodded again, feeling his heart swell. “Do you mind neutral pronouns, then?” he asked gently, and Mat shook their head, brows furrowed. Jaskier smiled brightly. “Does _they_ feel better than _she?”_

Mat’s face lit up. They nodded insistently, happily, and Jaskier beamed right back at them.

“Thank you for telling me, Mat. I won’t get it wrong,” he promised. Their smile turned soft, small, as they tucked their pencil behind a misshapen ear.

The sound of heavy footfalls broke the contented spell between them. The doors of the stable pushed open; Jaskier stepped in front of Mat on instinct, and his heart started beating furiously.

There, standing in the midmorning light, was Geralt. He’d pushed open both doors (always dramatic, his witcher), the rays from the sun turning his white locks golden. He wasn’t wearing his armor, instead donned in simple clothes, a white shirt and his customary riding trousers. His face, however, had the same expression as when he was facing a particularly nasty nekker, or perhaps a ghoul — a rictus of annoyance, his lip curled in a sneer.

 _Well,_ Jaskier thought with a sniff. _Best not disappoint a witcher looking for a fight._

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled. Behind him, peeking over his shoulder, Jaskier could see Ciri’s curious eyes.

Jaskier felt his teeth drop slightly even as he groaned. “Do you _ever_ get tired of saying my name like that? Perhaps add some inflection next time, you’re dramatic enough.”

Beside him, Mat tensed. One of their hands, overlarge and callused, found his shirtsleeve and held on tight.

Geralt’s jaw worked for a moment, irritated, until his gaze landed on Mat. Jaskier watched as the witcher sniffed, literally scenting the air, his cat’s pupils expanding with whatever he’d smelled. His demeanor changed entirely; gone was the intimidating loom, replaced by a ready stance, his weight transferring into the balls of his feet.

Jaskier gaped. “Are you going to _fight_ them?” he squawked. When Geralt just grunted, eyes fierce, Jaskier felt white hot rage flood his veins.

 _“Absolutely not,”_ Jaskier hissed, and if he hadn’t shifted before, he had definitely done so now. Shifting was natural to a fae — it came with their emotions, the ocean tides, the phase of the moon. Jaskier was no different. Except, with half-humans, the changes were more subtle; too-sharp teeth, too-bright eyes, too-long nails, voices with just enough power to be persuasive. Jaskier couldn’t control the weather, or manipulate people or elements entirely like certain fae could, but he was far from powerless. He’d learned many things traveling behind a witcher, especially one as discerning as Geralt.

Still, the threat upon Mat was a threat upon himself, and fae’s instincts were strong. He saw Ciri clearly blanch from behind Geralt, but the man himself just snorted.

“They’re not human, Jaskier,” the witcher told him, heedless of Jaskier’s appearance. “They’re dangerous.”

Mat made a distressed noise, the only vocalization that he’d heard them make. It sent his teeth on edge.

“If just being not human makes someone dangerous, then I’d be much more inclined to be afraid of _you,”_ Jaskier gritted. At Geralt’s incredulous look, he said, “Geralt, you absolute _pillock._ Of course I know they’re not human!”

Mat tightened their fist on his doublet. When he spared them a glance, their eyes were wide, frightened, but there was also anger, defiance. They looked torn between fighting their way out of the stable with their bare hands and crying _._

“Jaskier,” Geralt said darkly, glowering at him. The idiot had even begun to _bare his teeth_ at Mat. “I heard some of the villagers outside. They’re a threat.”

Ciri made a small, warbling sound behind Geralt. She peeked around his arm to say, “He’s trying to protect you, Jaskier!”

Jaskier rolled his eyes dramatically, but not at Ciri. The girl was simply trying to help her father, or maybe she felt noble and righteous, _like_ her father. It was sweet, regardless of the misplaced worry.

“Darling Sunflower, your concern for my safety is heartening. But when I say that there _is nothing to fear,_ there truly isn’t!” he proclaimed, trying to keep his edge while not sounding angry at the girl. He found Mat’s hand with his, and clasped them together, his Child deadly still.

Geralt watched the exchange — for an incredibly obtuse man, he could be very observant. Or perhaps it was the other way around. He stood down, still sharp-eyed, but Jaskier saw his incremental nod. It was his way of saying, _Say your piece, then, bard._

No matter how much time passed, Jaskier could always read Geralt. He didn’t know if that made him feel better or worse.

Jaskier shot a glance at Mat again. His daughter was staring back at Geralt and Ciri, their huge eyes tracking every movement, ruddy color flushed on their cheeks. He’d seen that look before, seventeen years ago, in a dream that haunted his nights for months.

“Hero,” he said softly, passing a thumb over their knuckles. His Child looked at him, startled, until he said, “You have nothing to fear here, okay? Geralt won’t hurt you.” He knew it, bone-deep. Geralt didn’t harm any of Filavandrel’s elves at the Edge of the World, he tried to protect the hirrika, on the mountain. He’d not dare harm a hair on Mat’s head.

Mat nodded, trusting him. Jaskier turned back to an increasingly confused, angry looking Geralt, and said, “Mat is my Child of Surprise. They’re part elf.”

Mat’s hand spasmed, but otherwise remained blank-faced. Ciri was outright gaping. Geralt, on the other hand, looked absolutely poleaxed.

“Child of Surprise,” Geralt parroted, monotone. “When the fuck did you get a Child of Surprise?”

Jaskier sniffed at his disbelieving tone. “Seventeen years ago, actually,” he said, “though I don’t suppose you’d care. Seeing as I am _shoveling shit_ most of the time.”

It was a low blow, since Geralt did seem to care enough to try and get him out of danger. But fae were fickle and capricious creatures, and after all, Jaskier was no exception.

Geralt actually grimaced, which was vindicating in its own way, Jaskier thought. “You were a fucking baby back then,” he growled. “You couldn’t even hold an audience. How the fuck did you earn the Law of Surprise?”

Jaskier puffed up indignantly. “I’ll have you know I was an _artistic delight,_ a _pioneer among my peers—”_

Mat’s hand vacated his, and his tirade abruptly stopped. They huffed at him and opened their journal, writing furiously.

Jaskier waited, watching them, though he could feel the burn of Geralt’s gaze. He struggled to ignore it. The pull he felt toward Geralt had slowly softened over time, but deepened, like a river cleaving into the loam of the earth. He felt connected to Geralt. Fae often chose land — a valley, a copse of trees — but he’d never felt beholden to land. He’d never had his own version of his mother’s flower garden. Instead, he’d felt rooted to _Geralt._ A witcher, yes, but a _person,_ someone whose lifespan was as long as his, and though people couldn’t be homes, fae had a habit of being _possessive,_ territorial, and you certainly _could_ be territorial over a person—

Mat thrusting their journal under his nose brought him back to reality. Their gray eyes were pleading, even as they waggled the book insistently.

 _Is this the reason why you’re leaving?_ The journal asked him. _Is_ _he_ _the reason?_

Jaskier inhaled sharply. “Yes,” he told them, quietly, though he knew there was no way Geralt couldn’t hear him from this close. Mat’s expression became troubled.

They scribbled again on the page, asking, _Will he follow us?_

“No, Hero,” Jaskier said thickly. “No, he won’t be following us.”

“Follow you?” Geralt barked. When Jaskier looked over at him, his expression was murderous. “You’re leaving?”

Gods, he sounded so _hurt_ about it. His stupid, battered heart fluttered with some light, romantic emotion, and though he’d usually revel in the feeling, delight in its softness, Jaskier grit his teeth against it now.

“Geralt,” he said. “Why don’t we talk about this elsewhere? The horses have heard enough.”

Geralt paused, his eyes flicking between Mat and Jaskier in uncharacteristic anxiety. The hulking idiot even chanced a look at Ciri, who was watching it all with unabashed interest.

“I think that’d be good,” the princess told Geralt, her face shining with… pride? “I can stay with Jaskier’s Child, give you both some privacy.”

Mat made their second vocalization of the day — a shocked choking sound. Jaskier’s hand was promptly crushed between their own.

“I thought they were _dangerous,”_ Jaskier said, his voice tight.

Geralt just grunted, turning on his heel and heading for the doors, just _expecting_ him to follow. The utter cock. “I wish your Child good luck trying to hurt Ciri,” he said, his voice almost affectionate. He cuffed Ciri around her ashen blonde head, the girl sticking her tongue out at him petulantly.

It squeezed something in his chest, to see the witcher like that. Not quite _easy_ with his affection, his love, but getting there. Jaskier saw the care in his eyes for Ciri. He’d only ever seen Geralt’s face that soft, that open, with one other person, and he hadn’t seen her in over two years.

Mat let go of his hands, just slipping them out of theirs. When he blinked at them, they were already gazing at him, eyes luminous. _Go,_ they said with their body, gently pushing him toward the doors.

Jaskier hesitated still; Ciri hadn’t been cruel to Mat, but she hadn’t been kind, either. “If you need help, run for me. I’ll be right outside,” he murmured. The part-elf nodded solemnly.

“Bard!”

Mat sent Geralt a truly venomous look. Jaskier hid his smile behind a hand, using the other to gently muss Mat’s curls.

He left Mat with Ciri in the stables, only sparing the princess a brief nod. She smiled at him, a little weakly. He hoped that his and Geralt’s Children didn’t decide to tear into each other the way he and Geralt most certainly were going to.

Geralt led him toward the back end of the stables, away from the houses. Jaskier took the time to watch him; his form was leaner, probably due to the coming winter — townspeople generally started to pay less with winter approaching. He wondered if the witcher was feeding himself well, stocking up on salves. It had been Jaskier’s job, when they traveled together, to find petty things like soap, medicine, needles and thread for mending. Geralt’s clothes seemed to be patched well. He tried not to hate himself for taking notice.

When he turned around, the witcher glowered at Jaskier, a pensive look on his face. Then, in a move so quick Jaskier struggled to see it, Geralt whipped out a small, brown velvet bag and held it aloft by its drawstrings.

“What?” Jaskier asked, caught off guard.

“It’s yours,” Geralt grunted. His eyes were fixated on him, pupils slit in focus.

He stared at the pouch. Was it cursed? Was it somehow poisoned? Jaskier sniffed the air, tried to see it at a different angle, before Geralt growled, _“Bard._ Take the fucking trinket.”

“A _trinket?”_ He couldn’t help his incredulous tone. Geralt _never_ bought trinkets. They were firmly in Jaskier’s bag _(ha),_ a fae trait. He loved small knick knacks, particularly golden ones, and ones with shiny gems, or even lumpy wooden ones—

Geralt made to take the bag back, grumbling, but Jaskier leapt at it, snatching it from his grasp. He hissed at the witcher, “No! No take backs!” and promptly unlaced the fussy little bag, only to stop dead at what he saw.

Nestled at the bottom of the velvet pouch was a simple gold ring. It had no large, gaudy gems; when Jaskier let it slip onto his palm, he felt tiny, delicate etchings in the shape of ivy leaves. Inlaid at its very center, a tiny yellow stone winked, clear as summer sunshine.

“Geralt,” he choked out, his voice heartbroken to his own ears. “What is this?”

The witcher shifted awkwardly. “It’s. A ring.”

Jaskier laughed, the sound a tiny, hysterical thing. He couldn’t stop staring at the ring in his hand. “I can _see that,_ mister witcher. Why are you giving it to _me?”_

“You like rings,” Geralt said awkwardly. His brows were drawn heavily over his eyes, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His fingers were nearly white with tension. “Is it. Not what you like?”

Is it not what he _likes?_ In truth, the ring was maybe a little subtle for him; the band was aged gold, the stone much smaller than what he gravitated toward. But it was simple, and beautiful, and the craftsmanship was perfect, and if Geralt had given it to him two years ago, Jaskier would have kissed him senseless.

“Melitele preserve me,” Jaskier husked. “Gods, Geralt. Why are you doing this?”

“I.” The witcher sighed, aggrieved, nose wrinkled in irritation. “You like trinkets. You like rings, and shinies. And I thought.” He paused, grunted, and finished, “I thought I might start — giving back to you. To apologize.”

Jaskier stared at the witcher, shocked. “You thought you could apologize to me through buying me gifts.” It was ludicrous. Geralt wasn’t built for small tokens, he was built for heroic, grand, sweeping gestures, and then repressing it all like a godsdamn idiot blockhead. Geralt buying things, providing things that Jaskier _likes,_ just because he likes them, was too incomprehensible for his brain.

The witcher looked like he’d swallowed a lemon. “It’s nothing,” he said, extending his hand out again, “I can take it back. I just. Wanted to show you that — I thought about you. When I saw it.”

Jaskier studied Geralt’s open palm, the ring, and then back again. “No,” he decided, taking the ring and sliding it onto the third finger, the finger it fit. “You bought it for me, it’s mine. You can only have it back if you cut off the finger that wears it.”

 _This is a dangerous game,_ Jaskier thought to himself, watching the citrine gem wink in the midmorning light. But when had he ever cared about danger, around Geralt?

The man himself just grunted, pleased.

“Now, that business out of the way,” Jaskier said, perhaps a little thickly, but who blamed him? The ring was gorgeous, and this was the first physical token of Geralt’s affection in… seventeen years. “I believe you’re going to try and talk to me about my Child of Surprise. And I have to say, Geralt, this is truly a trope switch—”

“Don’t leave,” Geralt blurted, stunning Jaskier into silence. The witcher’s face twitched in a grimace, and he almost looked sheepish as he said, “Please.”

Jaskier’s ears may be ringing, though he wasn’t entirely sure. “I’m sorry, darling, could you repeat that? Because I thought I just heard you tell me not to leave, _and_ use the word please.”

Geralt let out a long breath through his nose, pinching the ridge between his brows. Jaskier would feel bad about all these emotions the witcher was feeling, but he was too preoccupied trying not to let his heart beat wildly out of his chest.

“I meant, don’t leave, and ask me not to follow you,” he said, yellow cat eyes downcast. “I. Want to make it up to you. And your Child… they may be in danger. The pogroms…”

“I know,” Jaskier whispered, feeling sick at the thought. Rodrik and Vigga hadn’t been lying when they spoke about the Northern Realms purging their cities. He’d seen many a homeless, broken dwarf, elf, halfling, on the road to Greenbow.

Geralt nodded once, firmly. “Traveling together would be safer.”

Safer for who, Jaskier thought. Ciri and Geralt had to have been using every precaution this far south — Emhyr var Emreis’s empire was vigilant, and Jaskier could only imagine how much the former princess of Cintra would sell for, if some poor sod recognized her. Traveling in numbers had just as many drawbacks as it did advantages, and Geralt knew that, the bastard.

But then Jaskier remembered the dark rider, remembered being pursued for leagues upon leagues outside of Vengerberg, and suddenly riding with his former witcher didn’t seem so bad.

“Fuck,” Jaskier muttered, but it was mostly for show. His heart had already decided — the fussy fucking thing had taken one look at that ring, heard Geralt’s broken,  _ “I thought about you. When I saw it,” _ and decided that it was  _ right  _ back in the game.

Jaskier huffed, spun the ring around his finger for a moment, and then said, “Fine. But I have conditions!”

If Jaskier didn’t know any better, he’d say that Geralt was smiling, albeit tentatively. “Hmm,” he said, loose and easy, and Jaskier’s fucking heart stuttered.

“Rule the first!” he declared over the murmur, hoping that Geralt didn’t hear it. “No witchering my Child. Mat is mine, they’re not dangerous. Is that  _ clear?” _

Geralt nodded, not a peep out of him, perhaps because of the edge in his voice.

“Good. Now, rule the second: no drowner contracts going north!”

As he went on, he found himself rambling on the way he used to. Geralt’s eyes went half-mast, slitted up; Jaskier had always thought him like a cat in a sunbeam when he looked like that. It was rare that his expression did it around him, though. Usually it was elicited by a bath, or a good ale, or maybe one of Jaskier’s fine vintages, when they traveled up to Novigrad. It was never due to Jaskier’s voice, and it was  _ certainly  _ not prompted by just him  _ speaking. _

But he couldn’t help the flutter in his chest, the warmth in his heart. He’d  _ missed  _ Geralt. He’d missed the way the witcher would hum, amused or annoyed or content, the way he’d cuff Jaskier around the shoulder, even his stink in the evenings when he couldn’t find either the energy or the funds to bathe properly.

It might be good, Jaskier thought, to do this. To travel with the witcher north. He went to Kaer Morhen, the mysterious home of the wolf witchers every winter. Surely they would diverge paths before then — maybe at Ard Carraigh, Jaskier may still have some friends up there, from his schooling days. He could set Mat and himself up, see Geralt and Ciri off at the gates, and send ravens down to Greenbow while he arranged for Mat’s schooling. His Child was lettered, yes, but not properly trained — they were a fae’s daughter, after all, they needed  _ some  _ schooling on music, art, architecture. And part elf too, if his hunch was correct, meaning that they might need magical training —

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice broke him out of his thoughts, low and rumbling.

“Huh?” he said, blearily, to Geralt’s amused grunt.

“Get rest. We ride at dawn tomorrow,” Geralt said, clapping him briefly on the shoulder. The touch was firm and warm, and suddenly, he realized he was  _ exhausted. _

“Right,” Jaskier muttered, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Right. Now. Shall we see if our respective Children decided to eat each other?” he teased.

Geralt snorted in amusement, but led on. And if he spun the gold ring around his finger, over and over, on the way to collect Mat, well. That was his business and his business alone, wasn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: I hate Geralt and I shall never forgive him!!!  
> Jaskier, literally 5 minutes later and with a new piece of jewelry: I Have Always Loved Him And I Would Die For Him


	5. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leaving Greenbow, and all that entails for our valiant and graceful heroes. (By heroes, I mean idiots, and by valiant and graceful, I mean they're utterly useless.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I am _so_ sorry this was updated so late. The holidays truly kicked my ass, and I recently got a new job as well, so my schedule has been really out of whack. I should be easing into a better period, though, so I'll be able to update much more faithfully! I haven't forgotten about this fic!
> 
> Special dedication to Mel for this chapter, she's been my biggest cheerleader and I love her so much T_T give her a shoutout in the comments
> 
> **Warnings:** _discussion of character death, mention of child abuse/neglect._

> Greenbow, Rivia and Lyria
> 
> October 16th

He woke in bed, in his room at the Bumpy Cup, the smell of autumn fires burning in his nose. Melancholy threatened to take him; he wasn’t a creature of winter, after all. His mother’s people were from the spring court, he’d learned through very vague experience. Autumn and winter sapped at him on the Continent, just as much as they’d sap him if he visited the Autumn or Winter Faerie.

But it wasn’t just the seasons changing, no. It was Jaskier’s fourth morning in Greenbow, and his last. The thought was sobering.

After agreeing to travel with Geralt and Ciri for a time and the two had gone their separate ways, he’d hammered out the details with Mat. His Child was concerned about traveling with a witcher at first, but not for themself.

_Are you sure?_ They’d written to him, pale eyes apprehensive. They’d chewed their bottom lip near-bloody. _He’s a witcher. Don’t witchers hunt faeries?_

Unlike with Ciri, Mat’s worry for him warmed his heart. “Only sometimes, my dear, and only if the fae in question has harmed someone. And I, for one, am as peaceful as they come!”

Mat had grinned at him, as if they could tell he was bending the truth. He wondered if they _could_ tell, if it was a Child of Spring trait. He certainly could tell when Bláthnat was bullshitting. And anyway, he wasn’t the most violent creature; he was pretty average for faeries and humans, so he wasn’t _technically_ lying. He’d only gotten into a bar fight or two, anyway.

With Mat’s input, Jaskier had begun to sketch out a plan. They’d travel with Geralt and Ciri until Ard Carraigh, like he’d thought, but with a twist — Mat would have Vigga write to them, establishing a line of communication. That way, if Mat decided to pursue education in Kaedwen or use Jaskier’s connections at Oxenfurt, their mother would at least know where they were.

Getting Geralt to stop by Ard Carraigh wouldn’t be hard. If Geralt was going to be in a _giving_ mood within the week (which Jaskier hoped he was), then Jaskier would have a perfect opportunity to ask for a favor from the witcher. Besides, the daft man would probably try and bring them all to Vengerberg, where one of Yennefer’s largest shops was located. Ciri most definitely had already met the witch and certainly was thought of as her daughter — the girl would probably insist as well, no matter the cost.

And, if Jaskier knew anything, it was his worth to Geralt— and he knew that it was _far_ below that of Yennefer of Vengerberg. In short, the witcher would _owe him,_ and he’d be damned if he didn’t take the chance at having the man in his debt.

There was, of course, a bump in this plan — a bump in the shape of Vigga of Kagen.

The woman was incredibly obstinate, he’d give her that. Shortly after nailing out the specifics with Mat, they’d both walked a handful of feet to Vigga’s home. She hadn’t even answered the door when Mat knocked.

Jaskier had been furious. Gone was the adoration, the magnetism that had drawn him in meeting her for the first time. It had vanished the moment he’d locked eyes with Mat. Casting out one’s child, at any time of day, was incredibly irresponsible and childish. He’d shouted that at the door, stamping his feet, causing a scene that the whole of Greenbow probably saw. He hadn’t cared — still didn’t care, really. Mat had stood silently at his side, head bowed in their journal, writing slow and precise. When they’d shown him what they’d written, he’d seen red. 

_This happens sometimes. Give her a few hours. I’ll let her know what we’ve talked about,_ Mat’s spiky handwriting said.

Jaskier had opened his mouth to start another tirade, but Mat’s hand on his arm halted him. Their eyes were soft, pleading, brows drawing deep grooves into their forehead. Jaskier had ached to smooth the furrow away with his fingers.

At their silent request to leave it be, Jaskier left Mat at the doorstep. His Child had insisted they would be fine, that they had to tend the horses anyway, and that they had a shift at the inn in the afternoon, but it still left him feeling strange, uneasy.

He didn’t know how someone could give birth to a child, an innocent, and treat them that way. His mother had been a noblewoman, yes, but she had never treated him like a burden or a nuisance. Marzanna, too, was a kind, if strict, parent. Neither Jaskier nor his sisters were ever locked out of any rooms, and they certainly weren’t kept out in the cold. Not even when Jaskier was Mat’s age — his Child must be about twenty now — did Marzanna ever imply that he was to be abandoned. She wrote him near-religiously.

He’d made a promise to himself, then and there, that if he would ever treat a child like they were a burden, that he would be struck down by Melitele herself.

The rest of the day had passed in a blur of preparation. Using the measly coin he’d managed to earn from sporadic playings in Greenbow, he’d managed to acquire some provisions, better thread for mending, and extra lye soap, for Mat. He didn’t have the money for expensive oils, though he longed to buy them some. It wouldn’t do for his Child to go about smelling like horse.

He’d gone to bed without even saying a proper hello to Ilse. She’d watched him, wary, but she’d smiled when he gave her an ostentatious bow from across the room. After, he’d passed Barnabas and Kasimir on his way up the stairs, both men grinning and pleased to see him. It felt good that he still had friends in Greenbow, despite the drama of Geralt’s arrival.

Now, Jaskier let the grayness of early morning seep into his bones, spinning the ring Geralt gave him listlessly around his finger. It was the only one he hadn’t taken off before bed. It made his stomach turn — a golden trinket, and an apology, and he’d folded like a house of cards. It had been Geralt’s stricken face, his repentant tone, and time — two _years —_ that had done it.

_It means nothing, Julian,_ Marzanna’s sympathetic voice murmured in his head, gently, not disdainful at all, an echo from seventeen years ago. _It’s just an exchange. It’s practically payment._

Jaskier closed his eyes at the thought. “Practically payment,” he said, soft, his voice grating in the thin light of dawn.

Well. This would be the last time, then. And then Jaskier would truly rid Geralt of his presence.

He’d assembled his bags the night before in anticipation for the unreasonable hour. It didn’t take him long to sling his rucksack, his satchel, and his lute across his back and meander down the stairs, still blinking a bit of sleep from his eyes.

Jaskier walked to the stables without incident — he didn’t see any of the townspeople awake, and he didn’t see Geralt, Ciri, or Mat, so he figured he could have some time with the horses before having to shove off.

The stables were once again immaculate. Mat had yet to get up and let them out to pasture; he was met with several impatient whinnies when he arrived. He smiled at them all: Luíseach’s beautiful gray head, blue eyes sharp on him; Geralt’s new Roach’s ears pricked up in eagerness; Ciri’s jet black mount, her majestic neck towering over the others’, mane unruly.

Jaskier had always loved horses, as a child. He was often found in the paddocks instead of at his lessons. It had been his mother’s job to fetch him, since she was the only one who could reliably find him. But instead of sending him back right away, Lady Eirlys would allow him to spend some time with the horse he’d decided to visit that day. While he played, she’d spend time with her own old racing mare, Enid.

Enid had been pure silver, with a matching mane and tail. Not gray, or dappled, but _silver —_ she’d been born white, which was incredibly rare, and she’d only silvered as she got older. Lady Eirlys had loved her almost as much as she’d loved him.

After Lady Eirlys died, Jaskier’s lord father had the mare bred a final time, in an attempt to show Redania that Alfred Pankratz de Lettenhove, Earl of Gelibol and Mirthe, was not weak in the face of his wife’s death. The news of the pregnancy spread through upper Redania like a wildfire. If Alfred could produce a female, the line of elvish horses would continue, and the derbies that Redania coveted could be entertaining for another generation.

In the end, he’d gotten his wish. Enid bore a pure white filly, before dying after the painful, risky birth. He’d named her Cáerme — _Destiny —_ after crying tears of joy.

They were the first tears Jaskier had ever seen him cry.

It was Cáerme’s blood that ran through Luíseach’s veins, and by extension, Enid’s. Luíseach had been the last gift he’d ever been given by his family in Lettenhove. And when he said _gift,_ he meant he’d snuck back to the estate almost a month after Geralt had told him to fuck off down the mountain, and stolen her out from underneath his father’s nose.

The aforementioned horse butted her head into Jaskier’s shoulder. She was a demanding thing — nearly as bad as Roach.

_“Ceádmil,_ Luíseach,” Jaskier murmured to her, fond. He tugged affectionately on her bottom lip, making her snort derisively at him. He couldn’t help but smile as he worked on getting her brushed down.

“Since when did you get a horse?”

Jaskier sighed, cast his eyes heavenward, and prayed for patience. Luíseach bumped up against his hands, unhappy that he’d stopped petting her. “Good morning, Geralt,” he said, forcing cheer into his voice he did not feel. “Getting an early start this morning, are we?”

The witcher grunted. He stood by Roach’s stall, somehow light enough on his feet that Jaskier hadn’t heard him coming. The new Roach was lipping delightedly at Geralt’s proffered hand, presumably oats, or carrots, or something as equally healthy for horses and not the sugar cubes Jaskier loved to give them.

The sight of Geralt, a tiny smile on his face as he bonded with his new yearling, made something inside him ache.

Jaskier cleared his throat, going back to work even as he asked, “What happened to our Roachie?” Geralt’s arm jerked; he winced at his misstep. “Correction: _your_ old Roachie. I see you have a new one.”

Geralt shot him a blank look, one that could have meant a thousand things. Jaskier let him stew for a while, brushing down Luíseach’s hocks. It was only until he had started working on the tangles in Luíseach’s tail that Geralt said, “She got old.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Most astute of you, yes, that’s what horses do over time, very well done. I mean, did you retire her?” A horrid thought occurred to him, and he choked back a gasp. “You didn’t… take her out behind the barn, as they say, did you?”

“No, Jaskier,” Geralt growled. When Jaskier peeked around Luíseach’s buttocks to try and see him, the witcher was slipping a halter over Roach’s head. Jaskier sighed, thinking that the conversation was over, until Geralt’s low, hoarse voice said, “There’s a farm, in Redania. When Roach gets too old, or gets sick, I take her there. She retires peacefully.”

Despite it all, Jaskier found himself smiling softly. In his mind, he saw a ranch full of Roaches, all chestnut mares, prancing in the ever-present Redanian sunshine. It’s a good daydream.

Luíseach whickered uncertainly. She looked over her shoulder at him, blue eyes a little too knowing. He stuck his tongue out at her. She bared her teeth at him in response, so Jaskier beat a hasty retreat.

“You’re lucky I don’t take you where Geralt retires his Roaches,” he told her, to which she snorted rather spectacularly, turning away. Jaskier scowled. “Fuck you too.”

A soft giggle caught his attention. In the alley between Luíseach’s stall and the great black horse’s, Ciri stood, her smile tucked behind a gloved hand. She was wearing dark riding trousers, a navy cloak draped over her shoulders, and her long ashen hair was tied over her shoulder in a braid. Her green eyes were sparkling mischievously at him. She looked so much like Pavetta in that moment Jaskier felt his heart drop.

“Good morning, Ciri,” he greeted her, a little stiltedly. He felt wrong-footed around her. In another life, he could’ve seen himself gravitating toward her, would want to protect and shelter her. She reeked of power and heartbreak, the way Yennefer did, the way Geralt does. And with Calanthe being her grandmother... 

Jaskier grew up with three sisters; his best friends were always women. He would’ve been a fool to underestimate young girls. And what with the spot in his heart already filled by a Child of Surprise…

To her credit, the princess only dampened slightly. Her smile was still intact when she said, “Good morning, Dandelion. Did you sleep well?”

Her gaze unerringly fell on his hand, where the citrine ring gleamed. Her eyes impossibly brightened as a grin stole over her face.

He hid his hand quickly. “Greenbow has the most pleasant mattresses this side of the Yaruga, Sunflower, so I slept _marvelously,”_ he said. Ciri’s smile grew warmer.

“I’m sure you’re eager to get going. From what I remember, Eist told me you made a point to be a _traveling_ bard,” she said. From her tone, it was as if their rather awkward, painful first meeting was all but forgotten.

Jaskier snorted out a laugh, unable to suppress his fondness. She truly was her mother’s daughter: meddlesome and stubborn. “You have a keen memory, Cirilla! You’re right, I don’t stay in one place long; too much to do, to many audiences left un-dazzled!” He made sure to grin at her, even as he slipped a halter over Luíseach’s delicate ears, chattering, “I flit from court-to-court, until the noble lords and ladies bore me. Life is just much more exciting, I’d say, out on the open road, eh Geralt?”

Ciri gifted him with another giggle. Geralt, on the other hand, just sighed from where he was checking Roach’s hooves.

“He flits from court-to-court because he fucks the wrong person, and needs me to save his hide.”

The flippant, dismissive tone of voice rankled him. Jaskier bared his teeth at the back of Geralt’s head in a facsimile of a smile as he shot back, “That’s funny, Geralt, I thought you don’t keep people who _need_ you around.”

Geralt’s shoulders tensed, and Jaskier knew that if he wasn’t bent quite so close to Roach’s feet, he’d have whipped around to glare at him. Since he couldn’t, he just grunted, “Not true anymore.”

“Did you enjoy Cintra’s court, Jaskier?” Ciri asked, her voice like a whip crack. Her expression was carefully neutral, but Jaskier could see the irritation in her eyes, though he did not know if it was for him or Geralt.

Unwilling to unpack Geralt’s response, he met the question gladly. “The answer to that question is complicated, Ciri, though I suppose you already knew that.” At Ciri’s slow nod, Jaskier softened a little. “The city was beautiful, and your mother was one of my dearest friends. I had no trouble coming and going from Cintra.”

Ciri’s eyes went round, her mouth slack. “You knew my mother?” she breathed.

The feeling of being at sea threatened his legs. Pavetta’s ghost hadn’t haunted him in years, but the memory of her still hurt, sometimes. The letters she wrote him after the wedding were neatly put in one of his old journals, smelling of vanillin and aged ink, a pressed primrose marking the pages from his compositions. It was safe at Oxenfurt, in the chambers he kept there.

In this moment, Jaskier remembered that Ciri was only fourteen — still so very young. Her eyes were so big, shining at him. It made him miss his sisters. He smiled, saying softly, “I did. You’re the spitting image of her, Sunflower.”

Ciri stared at him like he hung the moon, but only for a moment; Ciri’s steed stamped her hoof impatiently, demanding attention. She scampered off, but not before sending him a grateful look. She stopped to whisper something to Geralt, but it was low enough that Jaskier couldn’t hear. He couldn’t quite tell, but he thought that the witcher ducked his head, his shoulders going tense as Ciri giggled.

Needless to say, Jaskier let Luíseach out of her stall and tacked her in record speed.

Anxiety settled in his stomach as he hitched Luíseach outside. His friendship with Pavetta hadn’t been discussed between him and Geralt. In fact, the witcher had gone out of his way to completely ignore it — Jaskier made no effort to hide his correspondence with the princess, nor did he hesitate to regale his myriad of friends on the road about it. He even wrote a handful of songs about it; it was quite romantic, the princess willing to destroy her mother’s kingdom for the sake of her lover. But discussing it outright with Geralt had never been an option.

Jaskier had never begrudged Geralt for his frank disregard for his Child Surprise. He even understood it — the fear of commitment, of a child’s life tied to one’s own, the fear of being loved by something so easily breakable and loving them in return. But he supposed, maybe, that he’d better understood the importance of such a bond, even without realizing it.

A short, sharp whistle drew his attention. Luíseach tossed her head; Jaskier put a hand on her shoulder to settle her. Down the road, he saw his own Child, flanked by their mother and their brothers. They were dressed in plain traveler’s clothes, a short cloak in a shabby, oiled brown drawn over their shoulders. Their chin was raised, defiant, despite the dark circles that hung beneath their tired eyes.

The lot of them looked tired, Jaskier thought. Even baby Klaus, with his chubby cheeks and bright eyes, looked like he’d spent most of the morning crying. Viktor, who held him, looked utterly bedraggled — his hair stuck up in all directions, his gray eyes red-rimmed. The boys were obviously upset at their sister’s decision, but it was Vigga who looked murderous, her jaw clenched and cheeks flushed.

Jaskier set his own jaw. He may have ran from this responsibility when he was younger, but his priorities were different, now. War changed people. And Mat was worth the discomfort.

Mat, who stepped up to him with steel in their eyes and a small smile on their lips. Mat, who proffered their journal with the words, “ _Are you ready?”_ written on the page.

Warmth spread through him like the sweetest of honey-wines. The animal in his chest that had raised its teeth and claws against Vigga’s mistreatment of them purred at the show of trust, of their excitement. Jaskier tweaked one of their titian curls fondly.

“Of course I am! I’ve been waiting for you all morning, hero,” he told them, proud of himself when it made their smile widen.

Vigga made a quiet, disparaging noise. When Jaskier turned to face her, however, her expression was blank.

Jaskier forced himself to relax, to not make any problems with his Child’s mother. It was harder than anticipated. “Good morning, Vigga,” he said, keeping his voice light, “I trust you had a good evening. Unlock a door in that heart of yours? Or perhaps to that quaint cottage of yours?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s a good morning, _skald,”_ she replied acerbically. “It’s not every day that a traveling bard steals away my only daughter on the heels of a witcher’s arrival.” Her keen eyes glanced pointedly at the ring on his finger. “Did he leash you again, or are you just hoping he’ll throw you a bone?”

Mat tensed up beside him. Jaskier made sure to keep eye contact with Vigga as he slipped his hand into theirs, squeezing gently. 

“My business with the witcher is none of your concern,” he said calmly. “Though should it cross your mind, I’d draw your attention to the fact that it is _infinitely_ safer to travel with a monster hunter around than not. I thought a discerning woman such as yourself would know that.”

Vigga’s eyes flashed, but only briefly. At that moment, Geralt and Ciri decided to slip out of the stables, mounts already saddled. Viktor sucked in a surprised breath; Jaskier saw his eyes were wide, trained on Geralt. The witcher had donned his armor, black leather sleek in the morning light, twin swords strapped to his back. His hair was drawn away from his face, revealing the scars on his cheek, the mottled burns and claw marks on his neck. His catlike eyes flicked over to them for only a second before he stooped to help Ciri up onto her horse.

Viktor’s expression was awed, nervous. Jaskier knew what he saw: a menacing figure, a dangerous man, an unnatural mutant. No matter how hard or how long he worked to rehabilitate Geralt of Rivia’s reputation, and witchers’ reputations as a whole, simple townsfolk never truly knew what to do with them. Geralt had long since accepted that fact, no matter how it hurt, but Jaskier certainly hadn’t.

Despite the long absence and heartbreak, Jaskier’s first impulse was to still say, “Geralt will keep us safe on the road, don’t you worry. No one is more gallant,” and then resolutely not look at the witcher, who was most certainly staring at him.

Viktor looked at him with wide, wondering gray eyes. “As you say, Master Jaskier,” the boy said solemnly. On his hip, Klaus blew a raspberry.

“Gallant he may be, but I do expect correspondence within the month. If not,” Vigga said icily, “you remember what I told you about that precious tongue of yours, bard. I _will_ find you.”

Mat gripped his hand tighter. He could feel how they nearly vibrated in anger. Jaskier simply smiled. “Promises, promises, my lady.”

The look Vigga gave him was scathing. Thankfully, Geralt’s superb timing hadn’t changed, because he barked, “Jaskier. Time to go.”

The sun _was_ creeping steadily higher, and Jaskier was hoping to make it at least to the foothills of Mount Carbon by daybreak on the morrow. “Dearly sorry, my most charming lady, but my companion is right. If I want to get that letter sent before the allotted time, we really must get going,” he said, grinning cheekily.

Mat tapped their journal against his chest. The book was closed, but their face was rendered open, brows furrowed. They sent a glance at Viktor and Klaus, pained, and Jaskier thought, _Oh._

“Of course,” he murmured, giving their hand a final squeeze. The look they gave him was grateful.

Jaskier stepped back as Mat launched forward. Viktor, who had been barely holding himself together the whole time, hiccupped as he fell into them, his much taller frame somehow folding into their arms. Klaus, wedged between them, gasped with delight and cried, “Mattie! Why are you crying, Viktor? It’s just Mattie!”

The sight of them curled together made something in his heart hurt. He remembered the smell of fresh linen and face powder, his sisters giggling in the drawing room, their letters stamped with pressed flowers and perfume. He’d known it was necessary to go, for his future, but leaving them hadn’t been easy, the monsters he’d helped raise.

He saw a reflection of that in Mat, who clutched their brothers to their chest as they cried, their fingers shaped like claws as they curled around Viktor’s head, Klaus’ back. He heard it as Viktor whispered to Klaus that Mat was leaving, and he might not see them for a long time. When Mat pulled away, he saw that Klaus was looking at them very seriously.

“Not forever, though, right?” Klaus asked, his brown eyes very bright.

Mat shook their head, equally as serious. The evidence of tears had been wiped away from their cheeks, leaving their face bare, determined and still sad. They cupped their littlest brother’s cheek tenderly. _Not forever,_ they seemed to say, _but I can’t promise._

Vigga stared at Jaskier accusingly. Jaskier turned away, unhitching Luíseach in practiced movements, the mare silent and still, for once.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, his voice low. He looked up to see the witcher already mounted, his face pinched. “Come on.”

“Mat,” he started, but they were already beside him. They gave him a solemn nod, slipping their journal into the knapsack that was slung on their back. Their eyes were downcast, their jaw set. Jaskier made a decision not to ride Luíseach out of Greenbow, and instead twined their fingers together, walking alongside the horse.

“Write to us!” Viktor called thickly. Jaskier smiled back, a little watery, but the lump in his throat had grown too large for him to say anything back.

“Remember what I taught you, _en’ca minne.”_ Vigga’s voice was not loud, but it carried anyway. Jaskier didn’t have to look over to know that Mat was clenching their teeth.

Geralt and Ciri pulled ahead of them, much faster on their mounts than Jaskier and Mat were on foot. Luíseach pulled on the reins, just a little, but Jaskier held her firm. Geralt did not look back at them, but Jaskier saw Ciri twist in her saddle, her green eyes big and luminous in her pale face.

Though it was barely past dawn, the ride back through Greenbow was not nearly as silent. As they passed the Bumpy Cup, Jaskier saw a few of the patrons outside — men he’d laughed drunkenly with but did not know the names of, and Ilse, ruddy-cheeked and misty-eyed.

She did not say goodbye, but she held up a solemn hand at him. Jaskier knew it was too difficult for her to say farewell. He waved back at her while Mat only nodded.

“Cry not for me, my love!” he called, to which Ilse rolled her eyes fantastically.

“These tears will never be for you, you ridiculous fop,” she snapped, but Jaskier just laughed at the blatant lie and winked at her. Ilse’s smile was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen.

It was the forge, after, and Jaskier was startled to see that it was not just Barnabas out front. The burly man had Kasimir tucked under one arm, and his whole gaggle of children in the lawn. Kasimir was straight-faced, but Barnabas looked close to tears. One of the oldest kids cried, “Safe travels, Mat!” while the rest of the children cheered and waved.

Mat smiled at them, waving back silently. Barnabas sent Jaskier a firm nod, to which he blew a ridiculous kiss.

Soon, the gates of Greenbow loomed, and Jaskier felt a maw open in his stomach. He didn’t often get attached to places — he’d be a poor traveling bard, if he did — but something about the safety of Greenbow enticed him, made him feel part of something special. He’d made friends easier in the little village than he had at Oxenfurt. He’d cried on the banks of the Yavina, reunited with his destiny, and fallen a little bit more in love with life again. He’d been without purpose before he came to Greenbow. Leaving the little haven, going back out into the world of dark riders of nefarious nature and harsh words spoken by true friends, was daunting.

He’d never been afraid of leaving, not even when he’d left Lettenhove for the first time. The feeling was alien, slimy and cold in the pit of his stomach. Jaskier sent a surreptitious glance at Mat, wondering if they felt something similar, but only saw that their face was carefully blank.

At the very edge of the hamlet, a little cloaked figure stood. The cloak was a rich, almost brown red, and its hood was pooled around the figure’s neck, revealing steel-gray hair. Jaskier perked up as Geralt and Ciri hunkered in their saddles.

“You never did come back with my entertainment, witcher,” Rodrik said as they neared.

“He doesn’t own my time, Ser Rodrik, as you well know!” Jaskier said, feigning indignation. The dwarf grinned at him, his craggy face crinkling with the force of it.

Geralt grunted, annoyed, as Rodrik laughed. “Aye, no, he doesn’t. You’d do well to remember that, bard,” he said.

Jaskier’s cheeks warmed. The dwarf shook his head, still chuckling. Rodrik approached slowly — to his surprise, Geralt slowed Roach, so that the old man wouldn’t get trampled. His gnarled old cane tapped against the uneven stone, and Jaskier thought that sound would always make him remember Rodrik, the king of misfits and unfortunate souls.

Up close, Rodrik’s black eyes glittered with amusement. “Be well, Jaskier of Oxenfurt. I expect to hear great things from you.”

Humbled, Jaskier ducked his head, murmuring, “I trust you’ll write to me, ser. Vigga has—”

“She told me, yes,” the dwarf said, his voice rough and warm, “and so did Viktor, and Barnabas, and even my Ilse. Greenbow will always remember you, _beag teadh._ And you,” Rodrik turned his piercing gaze on Mat. His Child did not tense, but Jaskier saw their eyes go suspiciously bright. Rodrik smiled at them softly. “Good luck on your destiny, Viggasdóttir.”

Mat nodded at him, smiling back tightly. The dwarf sighed, and then clunked over to Ciri and Geralt, saying, “Once you leave Greenbow, you will never find your way back. I hope that what you have learned here has been enlightening to you both.”

Ciri, for her part, practically bounced in her saddle. “Thank you, Master Rodrik,” she said, her voice appropriately adoring. Jaskier hid his smile.

“Thank you,” Geralt rumbled, to Jaskier’s surprise. He couldn’t help but gape at the witcher as he went on, “You have been… helpful. I’m in your debt.”

“You owe me nothing, witcher,” Rodrik said. “Just heed the words of an old man, and remember this place.”

Geralt hummed, acknowledging, and then spurred Roach into a walk. Ciri followed close behind.

As Jaskier and Mat passed Rodrik, the dwarf gave them a final, gentle smile. Jaskier placed a hand over his heart, and the dwarf mirrored him before they stepped over the village line. Suddenly the image of Greenbow that had been in Jaskier’s head blurred and wobbled, as ephemeral as the green flash at sunset, and everything but the faces of his friends vanished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Elder I use in this chapter means:  
>  _Ceádmil: greetings  
>  _En'ca minne: little love  
>  _Beag teadh: little bard___
> 
> __next chapter, be prepared for found-family-travel-montage a la Ice Age. again, special shoutout to mel, who helped me realize that I legitimately wrote an Ice Age AU._ _
> 
> __mel: geralt is manny, jaskier is sid  
>  mel: you can't change my mind  
> me: SJSGDGSHSHSHSHSHSKA  
> me: that would make mat the baby and ciri diego  
> me: and i am Not mad about it_ _
> 
> __as for updating, I will probably move it to Wednesdays instead of Thursdays, so be on the lookout! :)_ _


	6. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO!!! I am so so sorry for the late update, life truly got away with me. You all have been so, _so_ supportive of this story, and for that I'm so thankful! I've gotten so many thoughtful critiques, encouraging messages, and just all-around cheerleading, and I wanted to tell you guys that I appreciate it so much. T_T
> 
> This chapter was really difficult to write, mostly because I tried to fit too much into it — which means that there's going to be two other chapters coming out pretty rapidly. I hope you guys like it anyway T_T
> 
> **Warnings:** _discussion of character death, mention of hypothermia_

> Aldersberg, Aedirn → Vengerberg, Aedirn
> 
> October 19th, 1264

The skies turned gray on the second day of travel, and by the third, Jaskier was miserable, huddled under spare horse blankets in front of the campfire. For the first two days, he’d been able to keep everyone in good spirits — he’d strummed and sang for as long as the sun was up, and as the moon rose, he’d settled down into lulling melodies on his lute. But as soon as the rain descended, his mood had soured.

They were just outside of Aldersberg, a small city just a day south of Aedirn’s capital. He hadn’t been to Aedirn in nearly a decade — not since he’d met Yennefer of Vengerberg and wrote off the whole kingdom as a toxic cesspit, a poor excuse for land. Anyway, what he remembered of Aldersberg was bleak, gray-stoned walls, and surprisingly good tailors, for a trash heap. He wasn’t missing much.

Still, despite it being a pustulous, despairing city, Jaskier almost wished he was under its roofs. He’d prefer it, instead of being withdrawn into horse blankets, under Geralt’s shaky quen as the rain hammered down around them. Mat was curled into his side, reddish curls damp and plastered to their forehead, trembling and cold. Jaskier suppressed his own shivers. It’d been a year since his extensive traveling days, and he felt the exhaustion too, but he also felt a certain need to maintain his image. He was a father now, after all. He had to be strong.

Geralt, the bastard, radiated strength. In spite of his hair falling in limp strands around his face, the witcher remained solid in just his armor. He tended the fire occasionally, his yellow eyes reflecting the flames; Ciri was tucked into his side, head on his shoulder. She was wrapped in navy wool and white linen, and had a flush to her cheeks, like she was warm.

They looked related, like that, Jaskier thought. Their pale hair and skin, startling and fierce beauty, the thin bones of their wrists and large knuckles. Geralt could be Ciri’s biological father. It was oddly comforting.

He adjusted his arm around Mat’s shoulder, drawing them closer. They made a soft, sleepy noise, turning into him trustingly even in their sleep. He wondered if he and Mat looked related, in the flickering light of the fire.

“Gonna freeze,” Geralt grunted suddenly.

Jaskier blinked at him, a little startled. “I’m sorry?” he asked, his voice cracking. He hadn’t spoken much all day, he was too wet and miserable.

Geralt didn’t look up from the fire, but his eyebrow twitched — something that meant annoyance or amusement. It was hard to tell in the shadow. “You and your Child. You’ll freeze if you don’t wear proper clothes. It’s just going to get colder.”

Jaskier bristled. “Well, excuse  _ me  _ for not predicting the weather, Geralt,” he sniffed. He surreptitiously gathered Mat closer, though, the poor waterlogged thing. The idea of them freezing in the unforgiving winter climate made dread pool in his stomach. His coffers were still low from being on the run, and Greenbow hadn’t exactly paid him in coin, what with his drinking in excess and fleeing when Geralt arrived.

Jaskier stifled a sigh as he tucked his nose into Mat’s hair. He’d just have to improvise in Vengerberg, then; especially if either one of them got ill. It wouldn’t be the first time he resorted to thievery.

Geralt hummed to himself, a growly little noise that Jaskier resolutely did not look up to. The witcher huffed through his nose, and then said, “I’ve got extra.”

Jaskier did not roll his eyes, but it was a very near thing. “Extra what, my dear witcher? What have I told you about using more detail in your statements?” Geralt grunted. Jaskier finally glanced up to see the witcher scowling into the fire, and couldn’t suppress his smile as he said, “You have a child now, Geralt, you have to learn how to elaborate at some point.”

“Ciri understands.” Geralt said, very childishly in Jaskier’s opinion, before continuing, “Cloaks. They’re Ciri’s size, but they might fit.”

The offer surprised him. He watched Geralt closely. The witcher looked alright, his complexion just as healthy as it was normally, and his eyes weren’t unfocused. “Are you well?” Jaskier still asked, unsure.

Geralt’s brows furrowed and he said nothing. Jaskier sighed out loud this time.

“I’m sorry, Geralt, but this is highly out of character for you. I can understand having multiple cloaks for Ciri,” anyone with eyes could see how Geralt adored her, and being a new parent to a flowering young woman must come with some messes, “but offering them up to me is incomprehensible.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said, and if Jaskier was hopeful, he would say that the witcher’s eyes were pensive. “Not just you.” He nodded at Mat, who was doing their best to burrow into Jaskier’s body and share the heat.

Jaskier’s brows jumped. Geralt, offering his things to a virtual  _ stranger?  _ Unheard of. “Now I  _ know _ you’re unwell. Did two years apart finally render you insane?”

“Jaskier. If you don’t take them you both will get cold fevers and die,” Geralt said, deeply unimpressed. “I’ve seen men shiver until their teeth rattle in their skulls, and others take their clothes off and bury themselves in snow. They all die babbling.”

The mental image was very disturbing. Jaskier tried not to clutch onto Mat too tightly, lest he wake them. “Very colorful, Geralt, well done. Perhaps you should go back to being incredibly opaque,” he said weakly, to which the witcher snorted.

Geralt reached for his bag, placed neatly beside him, unlike Jaskier’s materials that were strewn about the campsite. He’d been desperate to get warm. The witcher revealed two packages that smelled sharply of waxed leather and wool. He tossed them to Jaskier, who fumbled to catch them in cold-numb hands. His jostling woke Mat, who made a pitiful noise as they gripped at his doublet feebly.

“Shh, hero, I’m sorry darling,” Jaskier murmured, sending a  _ look  _ Geralt’s way. The witcher stared back unrepentantly. “Let’s get you warmed up and then you can go back to sleep, alright?”

Mat sat up slowly, and Jaskier’s overactive brain supplied the sounds of frost snapping on twigs as they did. Their face was pallid, their hands dreadfully cold even in their gloves, and their gray eyes had taken on a worrying glaze. Jaskier wasted no time unwrapping the packages, instructing, “Alright, love, get some dry clothes on, Geralt’s graciously offered us cloaks.”

Mat hesitated, in spite of their chattering teeth. They looked at Geralt for a long moment, the two having a strange, silent conversation, before Mat creaked to their feet to change. Jaskier politely looked away as he unraveled their new (borrowed) garment.

The cloaks were fine, tightly knit wool in a sedate, navy blue color, the same as Ciri’s. It was lined with soft, gray fur — wolf or fox, if Jaskier had to guess. He didn’t make a habit of wearing furs, much preferring silk or cotton, but there was no denying that animal pelts would do a better job at keeping them warm.

When Mat came back to the fire, clammy but at least in dry clothes, Jaskier fussed with getting the cloak securely around them. Mat suffered it in silence, though he could see their eyes narrowing on occasion, wrinkling their nose.

Over the past two days he’d learned that Mat had a strange reaction to fussing. They seemed to enjoy it at first, but grew cranky after a while, insisting on walking and Jaskier riding Luíseach, and often taking time to be by themself at meals. It made him nervous, their desire to be alone; every attempt to draw them closer to the fire had been met with stony silence. Except for when they were at risk of dying from cold, apparently.

“There,” Jaskier said, contenting himself with brushing the fur mantle down on their cloak. “You look stunning.”

Under the draping hood, Mat’s large eyes were squinted at him, though a tiny smile pulled at their lips. Jaskier grinned at them in return.

Geralt watched them with a keen look in his eye. Jaskier pointedly ignored him in favor of rearranging Mat closer to the fire.

“Now, you stay there and get warm, I’ll be right back,” he told them. At Mat’s sharp, concerned gaze, he sighed and bent to brush a kiss to the top of their head. “Peace, hero. Geralt doesn’t bite. Or, at least, he doesn’t bite things that aren’t trying to kill him.”

His tone was teasing, but Mat’s face didn’t change. They brushed their fingertips to the inside of his wrist, one of their curious physical expressions. This one meant:  _ Come back soon, he makes me nervous. _

Jaskier gave them a tight smile. He chanced a look at Geralt, whose face had gone blank. Jaskier made sure to nod at him once, seriously, before turning to go change in one of the shadowy parts of camp.

His dry clothes dragged over damp skin uncomfortably, but eventually he chose his blue wool traveling shirt, which was much more practical than the bright yellow silk he’d eyed consideringly. His trousers were a lost cause, muddy and gross as they were, so he pulled on fresh braies and riding leathers. He almost never wore leathers — they felt almost greasy on his skin, and he’d rather not feel slimy during the day, thank you, but needs must. He sighed and threw the cloak over him, the heavy fabric trapping his heat, and drew the hood up to keep his head warm. His boots went last, woolen socks on his feet.

Finally finished, he stepped back into camp, and nearly balked. Mat had shifted so the light could better catch their expressions, journal open in their lap. Ciri had woken and was talking to them, her voice a soft chatter, Geralt’s arm still slung over her shoulder. The witcher himself was staring off moodily into the forest, expression pinched.

“... from Kagen?” the princess was saying, green eyes bright. Her chin was tipped up, face expectant, no longer leaning on Geralt for support.

Mat did not look nearly as awake. They were still huddled under their cloak, tightly curled, their face obscured by the hood. They wrote something in their journal, clumsy with the cold, and passed it to Ciri.

The girl blinked down at the page, and then smiled, a small but sincere thing as she passed the journal back. Her voice was warm when she said, “That’s not too far from Cintra. Were you born there?”

Mat nodded before scribbling something down. As they passed the journal back to Ciri, Jaskier decided to make himself known, before either of the Children of Surprise got too comfortable sharing their stories.

“Divulging secrets, are we? May I join?” he asked, plopping next to his Child. Mat didn’t even hesitate before leaning into him, their body lukewarm against his at best.

At the sound of his voice, Geralt looked over. Jaskier was surprised to note that the witcher’s pupils had slitted up at the sight of him, eyelids drooping to half-mast. His eyes dragged up Jaskier’s figure approvingly.

Jaskier resisted the urge to squirm under the scrutiny. “What? Like what you see?” he said bitchily, making sure to smile with all his teeth. Geralt’s expression didn’t waver.

“Hmm,” Geralt said, low and rumbly and warm. Jaskier ignored it, though his heart did a painful thump in his chest.

If Ciri noticed that both he and Mat were wearing her spare cloaks, she didn’t say. Her eyes glittered with mischief. “Mat was telling me about how they’re from one of Cintra’s vassal states,” she said, her voice deceptively light.

“How interesting,” Jaskier said, finding it anything but. “Mat’s family history is quite riveting.” In truth, he only knew what Vigga had told him, on his second night in Greenbow. The rest he’d put together from pieces of interactions — Vigga’s outburst over Luíseach, the name of Mat’s father,  _ Gwilym. _

So many questions, about his own Child. He wondered if he’d ever get the full picture.

“It is,” Ciri said, holding Mat’s journal in her lap. Her long, delicate fingers traced thoughtfully up its spine. “You’re from Redania, aren’t you, Jaskier?”

Jaskier smiled his actor’s smile. “I am! From the hills outside of Gelibol, where the sun never sets!” Mat shifted next to him; he turned to see their brows knitted up at him, gray eyes worried. He made sure to rub their shoulders soothingly. “I’ve trained myself out of the accent, though — ghastly thing, isn’t it? Oxenfurt surely was good for something.”

Ciri giggled at him. “I hadn’t realized that Redanians have noticeably different accents,” she said.

“The nobles do,” Geralt murmured softly. “They’re trained from birth.”

Ciri blinked, surprised, and Jaskier groaned. “Geralt, why is it that you only remember the worst things about me,” he lamented. “Why couldn’t you remember that I have a fondness for lemons, or what my moisturizing creams are called?”

“Those are better than knowing your lineage?” Geralt said, bewildered. Jaskier despaired at him.

Mat tugged on his cloak lightly, their eyes round. “ _ You’re a noble?”  _ they mouthed, their syllables exaggerated so he could understand.

“A viscount, actually.” Jaskier harrumphed and clicked his fingers at Ciri for Mat’s journal. 

Ciri looked annoyed at being beckoned, but she handed the journal over easily enough. Still, there was a bite to her words when she said, “You really didn’t tell them anything about you, did you?”

There was an accusatory note to her voice that Jaskier didn’t like at all. Mat blinked at him, mouth pursed and brows furrowed, while Ciri watched with sharp, narrow eyes. Jaskier attempted to look at Geralt, but the witcher just sighed, expression resigned.

“Melitele’s fucking tits,” Jaskier muttered. He glared at Cirilla, holding himself back only on the account of her being a teenage girl. “You’ve got no legs to stand on, little miss. Secrets sometimes are worth keeping — it’s what keeps you alive.”

The words were blunt, but he meant them. His history — parentage, title, age, everything — was incredibly sensitive. It might not put them all as at risk as Ciri’s, but the Redanian nobility weren’t saints, either. Calanthe had been a genocidal despot, absolutely, but the sheer number of Redanian noblemen that had helped drive non-humans into Cintra’s gaping maw had been considerable.

Geralt growled out a soft, “Careful, bard,” but Jaskier wasn’t listening. He was too intent on Ciri’s cold, expressionless face.

A gentle brush of fingers against his clenched fist brought him back. When he looked down, Mat’s journal was on his lap, open. They must have grabbed it while he was snarking off at Ciri. On the page, there was only one line, in his Child’s spiky, sloping handwriting.

_ Why don’t we all share? I can go first, if that’s easiest. _

Such an innocent question. Jaskier felt the stirrings of nausea in his stomach. Mat wasn’t naïve — or he hoped they weren’t — but the sentiment was. The truth of the matter was, he didn’t trust Ciri or Geralt with more than what he’d given them. The idea of Mat becoming more vulnerable, of  _ him  _ becoming more vulnerable, made his mind scream  _ danger, danger! _

“What a lovely suggestion, darling, but I do think it’s time for us to bed,” he tried, but Mat’s expression suddenly went stubborn.

They set their jaw as they snatched the book off of his lap and wrote something feverishly. Jaskier didn’t dare take the book from them, no matter how much he wanted to. This was their only way of communicating with them all — he’d rather cut out his own tongue than deprive them of that.

When they were done, Mat shoved the journal to Ciri, expression stony. The princess took it gingerly, brows furrowed, and when she saw what was written on the page her mouth dropped open.

“Oh,” Ciri said softly. Her green eyes were wide when they found Mat over the flame. “I…  _ Thank _ you.”

Her gratitude grated on him. Jaskier resisted the urge to scowl, to pout and posture jealously, and instead asked, “Well,  _ share _ then.”

The look Mat sent him was amused. They leaned into him slightly, a reminder —  _ I still like you best. _

Ciri blinked at him, and then read aloud:  _ “I’m not noble, but my family is from Skellige. I have two brothers, and I had one sister. My father is dead. I was in Greenbow for two years.” _ At the end of it, Ciri looked up again, a small frown on her lips. “I’m sorry about your father.”

Up against him, Mat shrugged, and said nothing more.

There was a beat of silence, the logs crackling on the fire, until Jaskier snapped and said, “Fine.” At three identically intent gazes, Jaskier went on. “I’m a viscount by birth and I have three sisters. My mother passed away when I was eight, I had a brief affinity for thievery when I was studying at Oxenfurt, I graduated with  _ flying  _ colors—” Geralt rolled his eyes at this, which Jaskier sneered at half-heartedly, “— _ and  _ I found Greenbow entirely by accident, though I must admit, I was traveling from the academy to find it.”

Mat tilted their head at him and Ciri asked curiously, “Why?”

He could  _ feel  _ Geralt’s eyes burning into the side of his head. “I’ve been to many places on the Continent,” he said, endeavoring to keep his voice even. “From the wilds of Nazair to Pont Vanis in Poviss, people have heard my voice and seen my face. But Greenbow is a town that’s never been mapped, despite it being just south of Rivia.” He paused dramatically, two pairs of young eyes rapt. He smiled as he finished, “I’d never been, obviously. I just wanted to go to a place I’d never seen before, see if I could make a different impression.”

The words hung in the air, half-truths. He  _ had  _ been compelled by this, to an extent. After Geralt left him, it was  _ his  _ turn to embark on  _ his  _ adventures, not a witcher’s or a sorceress’s or some magical creature’s. It was  _ his  _ time. But he also couldn’t deny that his desire stemmed from his need to step away from Geralt, and therefore was directly influenced by him — it wasn’t all  _ Jaskier’s  _ idea, after all.

_ Not even my Destiny, my Child of Spring, can be independent from Geralt of fucking Rivia,  _ Jaskier thought bitterly. It was this, above all else, that stung the most.

“Greenbow was an interesting place,” Ciri said, drawing him out of his melancholy. When he looked at her, her eyes were dark and knowing. “I hope to hear your ballad about it, one day.”

Jaskier thought of Rodrik, Ilse, Barnabas, Klaus and Viktor, and softened.

He smiled at Ciri, allowing himself to be genuine in a way that he’d not been in front of her before. “It’ll be one of my finest, Sunflower, just you wait.”

The princess blinked at him, seemingly surprised. Over the past few days they’d needled at each other, Ciri making dry comments about his music and Jaskier snipping back about her royal tastes. Geralt had weathered it in silence. But he respected Ciri, liked her even — she was thoughtful when she wasn’t proving a point, and kind-hearted in the way that the young often were. She’d seen much death, and Jaskier could understand the toll that takes on a person.

She was still a right brat, though. So Jaskier counted it as a win when the young girl relaxed her shoulders, just a little, a tiny smile on her face.

Mat pressed against him reassuringly, warmer now than they’d been all day. Their face was open, relaxed, their eyes round and reflecting the flames. They motioned at Ciri, head cocked, clearly a gesture meaning, “ _ Go on, tell me about you then.” _

Ciri hesitated, caught out. Her eyes flicked to Geralt, worried, the witcher looking concerned. His face was as impassive as ever, his gaze considering as it settled on the fire, but Jaskier could feel the nervous energy coming from him. “Hmm,” he said, rough and low.

Jaskier felt his heart trip in his chest. “Geralt…” he started, and the witcher blinked at him. His pupils were soft ovals, not yet threatened, just tense. Jaskier swallowed nervously before saying, “It’s alright. Mat nor I will betray either of you. You know that.”

He didn’t make it a question, because it wasn’t one. Jaskier had had plenty of opportunities to rat Geralt out, out of spite or some sense of self-preservation, but he hadn’t. And Mat wasn’t at all the type to run to Nilfgaard, Jaskier knew — they’d seen too much devastation from the war.

To prove his point, Mat made a soft, sad little noise, and pointed their big gray eyes at Ciri. The girl visibly wavered.

“It’s only fair,” Ciri whispered to Geralt, the final straw. Geralt sighed, an avalanche of sound, and stared into the fire once more, giving them a curt nod.

Ciri’s smile was incandescent. She brushed the inside of her wrist over Geralt’s, a habit Jaskier had noticed Geralt do to Roach’s belongings (and Yennefer, a handful of times). Jaskier wondered if it was a witcher thing, scent and sensitivity, or just a Geralt thing. He’d never had the courage to ask.

Ciri, however, had no qualms about the behavior, and promptly launched into an abridged tale of how she and Geralt found each other. There was more magic and carnage than Jaskier had anticipated — the off-handed way Ciri said, “Geralt got bit by a ghoul and almost died, before we met,” had punched the air out of him. He’d wheezed, and at Mat’s concerned glance, he’d waved them away, muttering, “No, don’t mind me, keep listening.”

Jaskier spent the rest of the story with his brain abuzz. Ciri’s story was full of twists and turns, of dashing heroics and also a little bit of ruthlessness, of survival instinct and pain. It made him ache for her, for Geralt, and even for the tyrannical Queen of Cintra, who had unwillingly left her granddaughter behind.

Beside him, Mat seemed to be having a similar reaction. They leaned hard against him, their hand finding his in the dark, and he steadied himself by being a solid place for them to land.

When Ciri finally lapsed into silence, she had brought her legs to her chest, her chin resting on her knees. Her eyes were half-lidded with exhaustion.

“Eist was a good man,” Jaskier found himself saying. Ciri’s green eyes pierced him when she looked up. He kept his voice gentle as he went on, “I meant what I said a few days ago, Ciri. I  _ am  _ sorry for the pain you went through. I’m so glad you found Geralt.” With that, he glanced at the witcher — he was staring at him, mouth parted slightly. Jaskier ducked his head to break their gaze.

“Thank you,” Ciri murmured, her voice wobbly with tears. “So am I.”

There was a moment of quiet, emotions still running a tad high, until Mat succumbed to a jaw-cracking yawn. The loud snapping of bone made Jaskier jump, tricking Ciri into laughter, unhinged little giggles that she hid in her knees, eyes squeezed shut. 

Mat cringed, embarrassed, but Jaskier only hugged them tighter. Geralt, ever the pragmatist, muttered, “We should get some sleep. Long day tomorrow.”

Tomorrow, they’d arrive in Vengerberg. Jaskier’s tentative good mood wobbled. Hopefully he didn’t have to face Yennefer; the witch had stolen quite enough from him, including several good years off of his life, at this point. She didn’t need any more of his time.

With affected gravitas, Jaskier stood, tugging Mat up with him. “Alright, my little darling, let’s get you to sleep. A big day for Children of Surprise tomorrow.” Mat harrumphed softly, but didn’t protest as he manhandled them toward their bedrolls. He only stopped once to wink at Ciri, who was grinning at him.

Geralt watched them go, golden eyes soft. Like before, Jaskier ignored it, and instead busied himself with getting ready to bed down.

After he got them both situated, Jaskier curled up in his traveling furs, keeping the cloak on. The added wool would help stave the chill. He was about to close his eyes against the sound of Geralt snuffing the fire when he noticed that Mat was watching him, their eyes gleaming in the slowly fading light.

They had curled up facing him, mouth pursed. Their brow was knit in contemplation under their hood. Jaskier frowned.

“What’s the matter, hero?” he breathed, barely putting sound behind his words. Any louder and he might risk Geralt hearing him, and he’d rather not have the witcher partial to every conversation he has with his Child, thank you.

Mat studied him carefully, before laying out their palm, face-up, on the ground between them. They looked embarrassed as soon as they did it, red-cheeked and eyes cast elsewhere, but Jaskier was charmed regardless.

Without acknowledging it, he slipped his hand into theirs. It must be hard, with such little voice in a very loud world, Jaskier thought. It made him squeeze their hand just a tad tighter.

At the contact, Mat relaxed, their expression easing. Their fingers twitched against his even as their eyes closed. Touch was so important to them, Jaskier thought; a language he understood. It was familial, his palm brushing theirs, and also grounding. Mat leaned heavily into each touch like they’d not experienced such love before. And when he got too handsy, too affectionate, they pushed him off, in a way that he was beginning to recognize as being overwhelmed. 

_ I want you to get used to me,  _ Jaskier thought at his Child, this quiet, somber person.  _ You can rely on me, if you need to.  _ It had been his biggest quarrel with Geralt, and apparently, it was going to be the biggest obstacle between him and Mat.

It was the similarities of his Child of Spring and his chosen Destiny that swirled in his mind as he drifted to sleep. Thankfully, he did not dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like always, comments are my love language!!!! i love you guys <3 shoutout to y'all sticking with me!!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! I do have a schedule set up for this fic, so the next installment should be out tomorrow (12/03). After that, I'll be doing updates **every Thursday** (my swiss cheese brain willing)!
> 
> As of now this fic is not beta'd, so if you see any errors, don't hesitate to comment! :)
> 
> _The universe and all characters not specified as my own are the property of Andrzej Sapkowski, and I take no credit for them._


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